


Thirty-One Days of Decembert

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Lambert (The Witcher), Anthology, Background Relationships, Bear School (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lambert-centric (The Witcher), M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), The Witcher Lore, Winter Solstice, Young Lambert (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: You read that title correctly.It's thirty-one short stories - seven a week - based around our most beloved asshole. There's fluff, smut, angst and everything in between. We both hate December (and the winter), so he and I are working through this one together.There's a chapter for every week, and a small contents at the start of each chapter so you can CTRL+F to reach a prompt.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven & Lambert, Iwo z Belhaven | Ivo of Belhaven/Junod of Belhaven (The Witcher), Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 131





	1. Week One: You're On My Fucking Naughty List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Week One: You're On My Fucking Naughty List** _
> 
> (1) [(Kiss Me Under The) Mistletoe](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636322784693436416/day-one-kiss-me-under-the-mistletoe-an); (2) [Frosted Windows](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636412839881474048/day-two-frosted-windows-an-as-a-young-man); (3) [Cuddling (In Bed) By The Fire](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636525512700887040/day-three-cuddling-in-bed-by-the-fire-an); (4) [Ridin’ Home For Solstice](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636608772897488896/day-four-ridin-home-for-christmas-solstice); (5) [Night-time Snow](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636683411499679744/day-five-night-time-snow-an-the-first); (6) [Frostbite](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636875752736997376/day-six-frostbite-an-lambert-has-an-argument); (7) [Evergreens](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/636882457244860416/day-seven-evergreens-an-a-sulky-bard-reminds)
> 
> * * *

**Day One: (Kiss Me Under The) Mistletoe**

_**A/N:** Lambert and Aiden have a very different understanding of mistletoe._

“Hey, Lambert,” Aiden called from across the grand hall. “C’mere.” 

That cheeky smile should’ve tipped Lambert off that there was something amiss, but fuck it, he was in a good mood; the snows were coming in heavy soon and that meant days spent curled under a blanket by the fire instead of training outside in the wind. Not even Vesemir was cruel enough these days to make them ice skate while practising different guard stances. 

“Yeah, what is it?” Lambert ambled over. Aiden was holding something behind his back but, while he was definitely curious, he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of angling around his shoulders to try and grab a peek. Thankfully, he didn’t have to restrain himself that long, because Aiden brandished a handful of green in his face the moment he got near enough.

“Look! I found it growing in one of the hawthorn trees just outside the wall, now you have to k—,” Aiden started, but he didn’t get to finish. As soon as Lambert realised what devil weed was being brandished in his face, he slapped it from Aiden’s hand and ground it into the flagstones with the heel of his boot. “Wha—?” Aiden’s eyes widened with hurt. 

_“No,”_ Lambert brandished a finger in Aiden’s face, his own eyes narrowed. “No mistletoe.” 

“Why?”

“No mistletoe!” Lambert called back over his shoulder as he stalked off.

Aiden gazed down at the squished pile of green leaves and white berries, but instead of moping, his resolve hardened. Oh, he did like a challenge. He left the fallen plant on the flagstones and headed outside the castle walls to gather himself more ammunition. That prickly bastard would kiss Aiden under the mistletoe even if it killed him.

And, as it turned out, it just might. Aiden tried _everything._

He hung it in the doorway of the bedroom and slyly asked for a kiss good night, but Lambert twisted out of it and lured him into the bedroom; he tackled him in the training yard with a sprig of it in his hands; he sidled along the kitchen bench when they were eating dinner one evening, only for Lambert to grab Eskel’s head and force it between them. Eskel was a good kisser, but that wasn’t the point. At his lowest ebb, Aiden sewed several sprigs into his shirt— _oh, it itched so bad_ —and tried to snuggle into bed for a smooch. After a bout of flailing and yelping, they both ended up with rashes that required Vesemir’s Topical Cream. Aiden didn’t want to know what else it was for.

Lambert, for his part, didn’t understand Aiden’s obsession and took to avoiding him during the day. He walked towards the stables one dreary afternoon with his hands shoved in his pockets. As he ducked through the door, he glanced up at the lintel to check for mistletoe before passing beneath it. Geralt was brushing Roach and offered him a nod; Lambert returned the greeting with a silent jut of the chin before bending down to one of the feeding buckets. 

_Didn’t Aiden get it? Didn’t he understand what mistletoe was? Why was he trying to curse their love? Why? Not that Lambert would ever admit it, but he was starting to—oh shit, footsteps._ Lambert dropped the bucket in his hands and leapt up into the rafters with one deft bound off a wall and crate. Feet and hands splayed out against the supports in the corner above the door, he glared at Geralt, who only smirked back. As long as Pretty Boy didn’t blow his cover, the smell of the stable would hide him.

Aiden nudged the door open. “Hey Geralt, have you seen Lambert?” 

Geralt brushed Roach a few more times before those golden eyes flickered towards their guest almost lazily. Lambert glared menacingly, teeth clenched to prevent the threat from leaving his mouth; Geralt could see him in his periphery but schooled his expression carefully. “If I have, what’s in it for me?” 

_Oh, you traitorous piece of shit._

Aiden smirked. “You’re a man of simple wants, right? How about your choice of two cards from my Monster deck? Legendaries included.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt turned back to Roach thoughtfully. He stroked his fingers through her carefully braided mane. “Even your arachas queen?”

_Consume three allies and boost yourself. Apt, Geralt, you snide rock troll._

“Even my arachas queen,” Aiden nodded, hands planted on his hips.

“He’s above your head,” Geralt’s gaze flicked up, and Lambert froze. It took all of two seconds for Aiden to turn with a raised eyebrow. 

Lambert, teeth still gritted, “Why hello, lover. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Come down, we need to talk,” Aiden murmured. _Oh, dear fucking gods, The Talk._

With a huff, Lambert dropped down onto the stable floor and brandished an accusatory finger at Geralt. “Next time you bring a screaming banshee of destiny home, don’t expect me to teach her fucking table manners, you ungrateful golem bollock.”

“Golems don’t have bollocks, Lambert,” Aiden said as he led his dearest wolf out by the elbow. 

“If they did, they’d look like him.”

With shoulders hunched, Lambert allowed himself to be pulled into the kitchen. There were two steaming mugs of mead waiting for them at the table, so clearly Aiden had been gearing up for this little chat anyway. He sat down mutely where indicated and then startled back out of his seat when he saw some mistletoe nearby.

“Lambert, sit,” Aiden growled, throwing himself down on the bench. “And explain. What transgression have I committed that you won’t even indulge a little foible of mine?”

“Wh—what?” Lambert squinted. “Aiden, that—,” he jabbed a finger at the mistletoe, “—is bad news.”

“It’s mistletoe, you idiot! Every child from here to Beauclair knows that you kiss your lover under the mistletoe for solstice.”

“Yeah, if you want the love to be cursed to end in tragedy,” Lambert grumbled into his tankard. When Aiden stared at him blankly, he huffed and scrubbed a hand over his head. “How have you never heard the story? Everyone knows the—look, fine.” A deep sigh. “There were these two gods, right? One hated the other for some reason, and the second one had a weakness to mistletoe and some other weeds. So, the first one makes an arrowhead out of the wood and kills the first. Or maybe he tricks his blind brother into doing it? Fuck, I can’t remember. Anyway, berries? They’re the mother’s tears. Crying over the death of her son. If you kiss someone under the mistletoe, the love’s cursed. It… it fucking dies, Aiden. Or the people involved, or—and you want me to kiss you under it?”

“Umm,” Aiden blinked. “I think you’ve—you’re missing some parts of the story there, love.”

“No, it’s true,” Lambert eyed the mistletoe on the table.

“According to whom?”

“My—,” Lambert scratched his chin. “My fuckhead of a paternal figure. Used to tell me all the time. Ma tried to hang it once, and he, uh…”

“Oh, of course,” Aiden murmured. That was a particular avenue he didn’t want to go down; it was better to offer alternatives than attempt to negate… that. “Well, every story I’ve heard is about fertility. The berries, the leaves. Cures infertility and poison. I know about a hero who used it to get to the underworld, and… that story you just told? The mother cried tears, and it was decreed by the gods that, from that point, mistletoe would bring only love into the world, not death. You got the ending wrong.”

“No, I’m right,” Lambert bristled.

“No, little wolf,” came a low grumble from the door they both hadn’t noticed opening. Eskel shook freshly fallen snow from his broad shoulders and dumped his snare of pheasants down on the countertop. “He’s right. Fertility and love. Kiss him, for fuck’s sake. If I have to apply any more cream to your pasty ass, I’m going to walk out into the next blizzard.”

Lambert pressed his lips tightly together, eyed the mistletoe, Eskel and Aiden all in turn. “If this goes wrong,” he whispered, “I will scream ‘I told you so’ loud enough for Hjalmar en Craite to hear in—.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Aiden swiped up the sprig, shifted around the bench, and plonked himself at Lambert’s side. He dangled the mistletoe over their heads, and they both peered at it for a moment, before Aiden nudged Lambert with his elbow. “Now, kiss me, you stupid asshole.”

With a growl, Lambert leaned in for a kiss. Aiden’s purr of delight was just adorable enough for Lambert to forget the damned weed was there, and he scooped his cat up into his lap as warm hands began to worm their way beneath his gambeson. What were gods and destiny anyway? Lambert would fight them all before he let them take Aiden away.

* * *

**Day Two: Frosted Windows**

_**A/N:** As a young man, Lambert found the more pointless (read: focused and requiring of patience) tasks of training to be the most taxing. Like, why the fuck does a Witcher need to have a precise kerning?_

Lambert puffed indignantly, and his breath clouded before his eyes. Every fistful of straw was another slight on his pride, and he practically punched each one into the target dummy. His hands were numb with cold, and his teeth chattered constantly. The thin woollen cloak they’d thrown at him as he’d stalked out into the courtyard provided little to no insulation from the harsh Kaedweni winter.

This was his punishment for thinking there were more important things to do than practice his _downstroke._ He snorted. It even sounded fucking stupid. Why did a Witcher need to learn to write, anyway? He understood reading. You needed to be able to work out the illegible scrawl of the average, vaguely literate alderman, and he excelled at mathematics, alchemy; everything that didn’t require pointless amounts of patience, endless misery and no visible payoff. 

Writing though. What a fucking joke. _‘It teaches you patience, coordination, and allows you to actually communicate with the world, boy.’_ He could communicate just fine with the world; a middle finger and a curled lip had served him perfectly well for his last twelve years. 

Writing was just so _boring;_ the endless repetition of the same letter until it was _absolutely perfect_. It was far more entertaining to flick ink at Voltehre, draw dicks on the corner of his page when he wasn’t looking and roll snap-bangs—as Lambert called his much-loathed explosive invention—under old Barmin’s chair when he fell asleep. It was that final little prank that had earned him dummy stuffing duty out in the cold, while the rest of his class sat and practised their letters in front of a roaring fire. _It had been a little bang_. Not like he’d rolled a fucking dancing star bomb under the bastard’s arse.

_This was a complete over-reaction._

Lambert glowered at the frosted window that shielded the other trainees from his view. Maybe he should throw a dummy through it? They could be as cold as he was, or maybe— _no, wait._ With a mischievous little smirk, he approached the window and wetted the tip of his finger. _Oh, he could write._ He just didn’t have the patience to, or like being _forced_ to. There was a big difference between incompetence and reluctance. And, better yet, he’d prove his skill _backwards._

First, a nice, curly ‘F’, with a little flourish at the bottom, an upwards sweep into the ‘u’, don’t forget to maintain the baseline now, Lambert. Wouldn’t want a wonky ‘c’, would we? Use the very tip of the finger to create a hairline to connect the letters and a nice, jaunty flick for the ‘k’. 

He could hear the sniggering of the other boys from this side of the thin pane of glass, which just made his grin wider, shortly followed by a loud snort as Barmin was disturbed from his slumber by the building mirth of his students…

The chair legs scraped just as Lambert was putting the finishing touches on the accompanying smiley face. The old Witcher snarled. “When I get hold of you boy—.” 

_That’s just it, old man. You gotta’ get hold of me first._

Lambert arranged the target dummy carefully against the wall, adjusting its arms using the handle of the old broom they used to prop them up, and threw himself at the old, worn stone of the keep’s walls. By the time Barmin burst out into the courtyard, it was empty.

His gaze turned to the window, and he heaved a resigned sigh. The backwards ‘fuck’ and smiley face were now accompanied by a dummy pointing right at him. The happiest ‘fuck you’ he’d ever received.

Well, at least they knew the boy _could_ write. Barmin counted that as a win.

* * *

**Day Three: Cuddling (In Bed) By The Fire**

_**A/N:** Lambert’s had a difficult year. He can’t seem to settle enough to sleep and it’s night three of staring into space. Luckily for him, Eskel has the perfect remedy for a restless mind._

Sleeping alone was absolutely fine.

Lambert didn’t need anyone in his bed with him.

He curled into a tighter ball beneath the heavy blankets and listened to the keep groan around him. For some reason, it was always difficult to sleep in the first weeks back at the Murder Castle. On the Path, beneath the stars, Lambert found sleep easily. He could be lying on a rockface with just his bedroll and cloak, but on those sultry summer nights deep in the woodlands of Kaedwen, he slept like a gods-damned baby. 

_Not here though._

Not with the soulless cries of a thousand ghosts echoing in the wind, and—

_Oh great, now he was being fucking morbid…_

Lambert tightened his arms around his shoulders and forced his eyes closed. Just. Fucking. Sleep. It wasn’t that hard. Just a big, cavernous, empty room, with four stone walls and creaking wooden rafters, and memories of— 

_Oh my—c’mon._

He threw himself over onto his other side, hoping that perhaps a change of position would go some way in knocking free whatever morose spectre of the past had settled in his head to prevent him from sleeping. The cool, silvery moonlight flooded in through a small crack in the heavy, double-layered curtains, and Lambert stared into it until his eyes glazed over…

The bedroom window flew open suddenly, and the glass shattered the moment it connected with the wall. As the winter wind stormed inside, snatching away the meagre warmth Lambert had managed to coax from the fire, he growled into the thick fur blanket tucked under his chin and went through the internal debate that every person did when faced with the prospect of leaving their bed to solve a mildly annoying problem.

But it was so warm. If he closed his eyes and hid his face, he could pretend there was no wind. No wind. _No problem._

As if on cue, a particularly violent gust whipped into the room and the cold cut through even the thick layer of fur and linen smothering him. No, fuck it. Screw this whole thing. In a flurry of movement, Lambert exited his bed, snatched the thickest of his blankets and padded out of the frigid, empty room that the others had dubbed his. He walked the same route he eventually did every winter and shouldered his way into Eskel’s room without knocking. 

The flood of heat washed over him as he stepped inside, and Lambert took a moment to bask in it as the door creaked behind him. Eskel actually took pride in his damned quarters. The walls were insulated with bookshelves, bearskins, banners and tapestries from his travels, with knick-knacks here and there on cabinets and tables. He’d scoured the entire keep for the very best furniture that had survived the purges, and repaired every single crack and crevice that might let the cold in. Eskel’s room was paradise. 

Problem was that being in it meant that Lambert had to admit he was lonel— _cold, that he was cold._ A sleepy set of eyes blinked at him over a well-stuffed pillow. “You made it three whole nights this winter,” Eskel grumbled, barely lifting his mouth free of the fabric to speak.

“I couldn’t leave it any longer,” Lambert said airily as he kicked the door closed and sidled on up to the bed. “Knew you’d be pining. All alone. Shove over, big guy, you’re in my spot.” With a low rumble, Eskel rolled over onto his back and left Lambert’s usual space vacant. The bed was so soft and so warm, but there was something even more appetising to Lambert as he slid beneath the blankets.

Eskel’s chest. Or, more precisely, those glorious tits with their dusting of fine, dark hair that Lambert just wanted to—f _uck, he was going to._ It was too tempting. Too hard to resist.

Lambert threw himself onto his stomach and pressed his face into the centre of Eskel’s chest, with two hands clasping a majestic tit apiece. With his face sandwiched in all the Eskel he could ever desire, he pursed his lips and went to town. With his face nuzzling from side to side, the resulting, slobbery raspberry was met with a quiet, long-suffering sigh from its victim, but Lambert growled in absolute glee. 

“Really?” Eskel sighed. 

“Yes, really,” Lambert mumbled to Eskel’s heart, before applying one final slobbery ‘brrrrr’ and flopping onto his back, arms tucked behind his head. 

“You could just come and sleep in here permanently, you know,” Eskel said after a long, drawn-out silence that he’d clearly felt the weight of, while Lambert hadn’t. “Your room’s so cold I’m pretty sure it’s haunted, but I can’t get the wraith to manifest.” 

“You’ve been hunting wraiths in my bedroom,” Lambert raised an eyebrow at the ceiling. “You don’t need to make excuses, Eskel. I know you missed me, but it’s all okay, I’m here now.” One hand lifted from the pillow behind his head to pat Eskel on his still damp chest. “Go to sleep. I’ll keep an eye out. I ain’t afraid o’ no ghosts.”

“You’re such an ass,” Eskel chuckled, and rolled over until he could rest his head on Lambert’s chest. Rather than blow his own raspberry though, he turned his face down and breathed him in with a contented sigh. Moments later, surprisingly tender fingers stroked through his hair, and Eskel’s eyes flickered. _Surprising_. Perhaps to someone who didn’t know Lambert well. He was all prickles and brash violence on the outside, but with his armour discarded and the chip on his shoulder left at the door, he was the tenderest man Eskel knew.

“Are we running the usual bet?” 

“One hour.” 

“Ooh, that’s long,” Lambert considered a cobweb fluttering high in the roof beams. “I’m going for half an hour. It’s cold. That always deducts time.”

“Five orens?”

“I’ve only got Florens left,” Lambert grumbled.

“Fine… cheapskate,” Eskel closed his eyes, and they both counted down the time until the inevitable.

 _Lambert won._

Within half an hour, Eskel’s bedroom door creaked open and Geralt limped in. He was cradling his arm close to his chest, and his leg was clearly seizing with pain. Lambert moved aside quickly and without remark so that Geralt could slip into the warmth of the bed. Both Eskel and Lambert pretended not to hear the agonised whimpers as body heat melted through the numb cold, making Geralt hurt more acutely for just a moment before he finally relaxed into their embrace.

They didn’t mention the bet to Geralt. It wasn’t intended to ridicule or hurt. Like Lambert, he struggled with the idea of _needing_ this, despite loving every second from the moment the furs draped over him. The easy affection, the soft, deep heartbeats of the two men either side of him, and the warmth that sank to his very bones. Bones that seized and ached with the scars of decades-old wounds. 

For the remaining wolves of Kaer Morhen, winter was about nursing old wounds; some physical, some in the mind. Sometimes even old Vesemir joined them for the night; nightshirt, gown and cap still officiously in place even as he tucked himself in at Eskel’s side. On their own, the burden was too heavy, the pain too sharp, the memories too vivid. But nestled together in Eskel’s bed—warm, comfortable and safe—the ghosts, the pain, the scars; they all hurt a little less.

* * *

 **Day Four: Ridin’ Home for** ~~Christmas~~ **Solstice**

_**A/N:** Lambert is always first to arrive at Kaer Morhen for the winter. He spends the first few days tidying, cleaning and making everything just as Eskel likes it. And then the asshole’s late. What the fuck, Eskel?_

Lambert didn’t stand on ceremony as he strode through the open gates of Kaer Morhen. Vesemir got a cursory jut of the chin in greeting before he headed inside to dump his bags and scrub away a few months’ worth of grime. Once he’d had a shave and located some clean clothes, Lambert set about his usual routine. _Avoid Vesemir. Check. Set up a fresh brew in one of the basement workrooms. Prepare Eskel’s room._

The last one was important. After an entire year of closed windows and doors, the dust had settled and a musty smell of ‘Old Castle’ sat thickly in the air. He pulled the sheets off the bed, replaced them with the clean ones that Vesemir had left by the door—the old man knew better than to interrupt the process—and unpacked the tightly bound furs they’d packed away last year.

It was Lambert’s settling in ritual. Knowing that everything was _just so_ for Eskel’s arrival helped him find stability. The transition from Path to semi-domestic living was jarring. One moment you were sleeping beneath the stars, with wolves howling in the distance and your swords close to hand, and the next you had a roof over your head, constant access to food and… rules.

_Oh, and then there was the silence._

It wasn’t a complete silence though. The castle _moaned._ It was an incessant ‘woooooh’ of wind rushing through the hollow corridors; it squirmed through every crack and crevice, turning the damned keep into a giant echo chamber. But tidying Eskel’s room? Making it all nice? It was a reminder that he wouldn’t be alone in this hellhole for long. 

Once everything was in place—the wood stacked by the fire, the books righted, Lambert’s bags unpacked and tucked away beneath the bed—it was time to _wait._

*** 

Eskel decided to stop off in Ban Ard. There was no _rush._ The first snows were still some time off and he hadn’t visited Kaedweni’s pearl for some time. He left Scorpion in the public stables and shouldered his bags because, while Scorpion would sooner bite the stable hand than let himself be spirited away by a stranger, Eskel’s meagre belongings didn’t have the same defences. 

The Witcher strolled the crowded streets, pausing occasionally at a stall stacked with fine cloths, or wax candles treated hides or bound books. Outside Oxenfurt, Ban Ard was the only other place that attracted such a range of enterprise; Eskel could purchase everything from the mundane to the most peculiar while traipsing these cobbled roads.

The academy was mostly responsible for the diverse array of wares and sellers. The students of Ban Ard, although less skilled than their female counterparts at Aretuza, were no less ravenous for knowledge and novelty. Sometimes Eskel wondered if fate had played a different hand, whether he could’ve ended up training in those hallowed halls; an adept of Ban Ard rather than a simple Witcher. He huffed at the thought and turned back to browsing.

Despite casting longing looks at one of the booksellers offering tomes of Aen Seidhe poetry, Eskel wasn’t intending to spend any of his remaining ducats on himself. No. He was here for a gift. Lambert had a favourite beard oil. It made his skin and hair soft, and Eskel liked nothing more than to rub the right side of his face through it, feel those gentle scratches down his scars and across his lips.

After a little searching, Eskel stumbled across the dwarven seller down a side alley and took his time sniffing at the various decoctions until he found the scent that burrowed deep into his chest. The familiar aroma that he associated with warm skin, crackling fires and soft furs beneath his back as— _hmm_. “Here,” Eskel passed over the correct amount, and the dwarf grunted his thanks as the Witcher packed away his purchase. 

Mission accomplished, Eskel turned his attention to the Silver Newt Inn. He’d cultivated a brand new Gwent deck for the season, and it was time to fleece a few arrogant young adepts of their not-so-hard-earned coin before facing the big hitters at Kaer Morhen.

***

Four days had passed since Lambert had arrived at Kaer Morhen, and he was running out of things to keep him occupied. Vesemir sent him out to fell some trees for firewood and he ended up stocking every room in the castle. Sewing, masonry, restocking dried herb supplies; none of it occupied him for more than a few hours.

Eskel never took more than three days. It was like they were in sync. But it was fine. He probably got held up helping some poor villager, or— _yeah, just… doing Eskel things._

_***  
_

Eskel followed the Gwenllech north-east towards Kaer Morhen, stopping to assist a wagon train that had got stuck in the mud. The ground would freeze over soon, but until then the incessant rain turned the fields of Kaedwen into muddy sinkholes.

The merchant was both grateful and horrified, but Eskel was used to the dichotomy—the way it twisted people’s expressions—and accepted the payment with a silent nod. Witchers didn’t work for free and, although this had been an act of kindness, he’d long since learned people felt better if they paid a Witcher, because then they were assured of his permanent departure.

The trail up to Kaer Morhen was fairly simple at first. The Killer didn’t start for a good few klicks north, and Eskel rode Scorpion sedately up the gentle slopes. He breathed deeply of the clean, natural scent of the mountains. No human settlements for miles; no fetid odour, no noise. _Just peace._

Actually. _Too much peace._

Eskel drew Scorpion to a slow stop and tilted his head back. “M'aespar que va'en, ell'ea?”

The branches creaked. The leaves rustled. Scoia’tael marksmen emerged from the shadows. Their commander was a familiar face though and spread his arms wide in greeting. “Squass'me, Eskel.” He was a tall elf, with dark brown hair and rich green eyes that sparkled with mischievous intelligence. _Riordain._

The Witcher hopped down from his saddle and grasped the offered forearm in greeting. Bows were lowered, and he was welcomed back to their camp for lunch. Eskel and this particular band went back many years. Riordain was a young commander with a promising future ahead of him, as long as he didn’t get strung up by his toenails first. The irony of the Squirrels eating squirrel never escaped Eskel, and he teased them quietly around a mouthful of well-cooked, stringy meat.

As they ate, Riordain and his fellows regaled their Witcher companion with embellished tales of their successes and slightly muter accounts of their failures, and by the time Eskel looked up from the fire the sun was setting. “Ahh, fuck. I need to go.”

“Stay,” Riordain clicked his fingers and indicated one of the thick barrels at the edge of the clearing. “Drink with us.”

“Lambert will be pissed if I’m any later.”

“Tch,” the elf blustered. “Lambert caen me a'baeth aep arse.” A wave of laughter rippled around the camp, but Riordain sighed when Eskel looked only partially convinced. “Look, one more night won’t kill him, and you can take some of our tails back. Maybe their softness will counteract his sharp tongue.”

The last of Eskel’s resistance faded, and he accepted the stein of expensive—stolen—wine thrust into his hand. “They better be soft fucking tails, Riordain.”

“Soft enough to wipe a baby’s arse,” the elf grinned and Eskel settled in for the evening.

***

“He’s dead,” Lambert said when Geralt walked through the door with Jaskier at his side. No way Geralt and his pet got up the Killer before Eskel. No way. “Been eaten. Or he’s rotting on the side of the road. Forgotten. Abandoned. No one to bury him.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lambert,” Geralt growled, rubbing finger and thumb into his eyes. “He’s probably just delayed. You’re such a morb—.” The withering look he received over the top of a brimmed mug of moonshine stayed the rest of the words on his tongue, and he looked to Jaskier for some support. Mistake.

The bard hummed. “And even if he is, we can write him a beautiful eulogy, an ode to the Dragon of Kaer Morhen, and—.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt lifted his hand slowly and placed it over the bard’s mouth. “Stop talking.” Despite travelling at Geralt’s side on and off for years, Jaskier’s survival instinct was as sharp as a troll’s club and he’d completely missed the burning rage kindling in the back of Lambert’s eyes. 

Vesemir arrived with a heaping plate of boiled vegetables and carefully roasted meat. “Saw him this morning. He’s just reached the Killer. Should be here in a day or two.”

“What the—? And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, mention that?” Lambert blustered.

“I’m mentioning it now,” Vesemir snipped back as he threw himself down on the bench and grabbed a fork. “Wind your neck in. He’ll get here when he gets here.”

Dinner was tense.

**

Eskel stopped off to pick a few herbs, snared himself a rabbit or two to offer Vesemir as the first dinner back, and camped out an extra night. By the time Kaer Morhen emerged from behind a rocky outcrop, the first snows were beginning to fall. Eyes closed, Eskel tilted his face up to the sky and then, with a furtive glance over his shoulder to make sure no crafty Aen Seidhe were hiding out behind him, extended his tongue to lick a few flakes from the air.

_Hm. Tasted like home._

The remainder of the Killer wasn’t really deadly as much as it was boring. The path wound down into a steep ravine and then arched back up abruptly to the very gates. Eskel didn’t push Scorpion and ended up sleeping beneath the stars for another night. When he woke in the morning, he shook the snow out of his hair and covered the last few miles.

Vesemir greeted him at the gates. “Stand ready.”

Eskel blinked. “What?”

“You weasly motherfucker,” Lambert flew out of the keep, clearing the balcony and steps in a single bound to reach the courtyard. “Where the ever-loving fuck have you been? I’ve been worried sick. I thought you were dead! I thought you were forktail chow! I thought a rock troll had ripped your spine out your asshole!” 

“I’ve got you presents; beard oil, some squirrel tails,” Eskel braced himself because Lambert broke into a sprint seconds after he’d finished speaking.

“I’ll give you fucking squirrel tails!” His shoulder collided with Eskel’s stomach, but the huge _boulder_ was ready for it and wrapped two thick arms around Lambert’s waist. With a grunt of effort, Eskel threw Lambert away, only to be set upon moments later after a swift recovery. They ended up wrestling in the snow. Vesemir took Scorpion to the stables with a sigh and left them to get reacquainted. This happened every bloody year. 

“Lambert,” Eskel was chuckling because those hands were worming their way under his cloak and gambeson as they scuffled. His fingers were deft and bloody _freezing._ “Lambert, fuck, stop, _stop_.”

“Son-of-a-bitch, you can’t get away with it—you fucking—,” Lambert huffed, lips teasing in the beginnings of a smile as Eskel chortled, “fucking—squirrel tails, you piece of shit. You put me off for squirrel tails.” Their frantic movements ceased, with Lambert’s wrists grasped in Eskel’s big hands.

“They’re very soft squirrel tails,” Eskel murmured, head tilted back in a pool of melted snow. His lover leaned into his grip, dropping his face until their noses brushed together. The menace in his glare was all for show, and Eskel could see the relief, the love, _the mischief,_ burning through it. 

“Oh, they better be,” Lambert growled. “Welcome home, asshole.” And then finally their mouths slotted together. Their first kiss in a year. Deep, yearning, passionate. It went on… for a while.

* * *

**Day Five: Night-time Snow**

_**A/N:** The first night-time snows of winter were the last thing Lambert ever saw with human eyes._

Lambert sat on the edge of the balcony, his legs dangling over the courtyard, and stared into the darkness. The heavy cloak around his shoulders was barely enough to keep the biting chill at bay, but this was one of those nights when the cold was the least of his concerns.

Because tonight, it was the first snow.

Morhen Valley was so predictable. Every year Lambert arrived back and a week later the first snowfall would begin in the early hours of a crisp morning. The sun would rise in five hours or so, but for now, Lambert sat alone in the darkness, with the cold and the silence pressing down on him. Just as he had done all those decades ago; a small, frightened boy with nowhere to run.

“Oi, space for one more?”

Lambert turned and glanced over his shoulder. Two bright green eyes beamed at him from the warm. Ciri had an even thicker cloak wrapped around her; the fur collar rose around her already rosy cheeks. She had come bearing an offering; a bottle of something clear and strong that she now held out as her bargaining chip. “Yeah, alright, sprout,” Lambert jerked his head to the left. “Pull up a flagstone and park your arse.”

She strode out into the cold, shutting the meagre warmth of the castle in behind her, and perched herself at Lambert’s side. He slung his empty bottle into the courtyard with a strong overarm throw, and they both smirked as it shattered somewhere in the darkness. Ciri uncorked the bottle and passed it across to Lambert. “Thought you hated the cold.”

“I do,” Lambert grumbled and pressed the neck of the bottle to his lips for a long swig. _Fuck a duck, she was getting good at brewing._ He needed to be careful or he’d be out of business. All three of his customers—four if you included Geralt’s pet bard—would turn to the better artisan.

“Then why do you sit out here? Eskel says you do it every year,” Ciri turned her eyes out towards the castle walls and the forest beyond. The trees were like dark claws clutching at the inky sky; frozen kikimora lurking in the shadows.

“To remind me,” Lambert held the bottle between his knees, and when Ciri glanced across at him with a questioning eyebrow, he sighed irritably. “To remind me what it was like—what I was—before they turned me into this.”

“An asshole?”

“You are not too old to go for a run,” Lambert growled back, but couldn’t hide the hints of a smirk teasing at his lips. 

“No, but it is… very late, or early?” She glanced down at the bottle in Lambert’s grasp and then held out her own hand. “Sharing’s caring.” 

Both eyebrows shot towards his distant hairline, but he handed it over. “Fuck, sometimes I forget you’re not a little banshee anymore.”

“No,” she sighed, took a swig, and then slouched. “A big banshee.” They both flashed their teeth in mirrored smiles. “You’re not alone, you know. Not… not like you were back then. And you don’t have to sit out here and freeze to death. We could all watch the snow through the window in Eskel’s room, or the kitchen.”

“Hm,” Lambert looked away. “It’s… just something I need to do.” 

Every year, without fail, he relived that final night as a human boy on this same balcony. Shivering, and crying, and begging any god that would listen to come and save him. He’d endured enough. There had to be some other penance he could pay; some other service he could render as punishment for his mere existence. Lambert’s faith in anything and everything had died that night. The boy that they led down to the laboratories had decided to survive out of spite; fuck the gods, fuck the Witchers, fuck the mages, fuck everyone that stood by and watched him suffer. He’d live on just to be a thorn in their fucking backside. No one abandoned him and got away without doing their penance.

“I’m grateful,” Ciri’s whisper broke the oppressive silence.

“For what?”

“For you,” she said, without missing a beat. “I love Geralt, and Eskel, and Yen, and Vesemir… just everyone. But you brought laughter to my time here, and I don’t think I would’ve survived without it.”

The lump in Lambert’s throat was new. As was the stinging in his eyes. _Alien, unfamiliar._ He sat up straight, cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his head, scratched his beard, shuffled, and then finally found a comeback. “Fucking hell, two mouthfuls and you’re more sentimental than Geralt.”

“Ha,” she knocked back another long draw, “ass—,” she burped, _loudly,_ “—hole.”

Lambert looked at her in disgust. “That—,” he yanked the bottle out of her hands, “—was pathetic. Clearly, some of the most important lessons have been forgotten. Observe, initiate.” Pulling in a deep breath before, Lambert placed the bottle to his mouth and drank. The pressure built to a sufficient level in his chest; he rolled his shoulders to shimmy the air bubbles along, and—

_Buuuuuurrrrrrrrpppp._

It echoed satisfyingly around the courtyard, and Lambert looked across at Ciri, arms spread in a challenge. She dismissed him with a flick of the hand. “Eh, I give it a seven out of ten.”

“A _seven_? That was clearly at least a nine. The range, the _volume_ alone, I—.”

She grinned, snatched the bottle, and took her turn. 

Vesemir stood in the kitchen and listened to the _gastro-nomical_ symphony, punctuated now and then with snickers, and shook his head fondly. Ciri was an amalgamation of all of their best parts. Geralt’s sense of justice, Vesemir’s knowledge, Eskel’s patience, Yen’s drive… and Lambert’s heart.

* * *

**Day Six: Frostbite**

_**A/N:** Lambert argues with the others and refuses to go home for the winter. He pays a high price. **Warnings:** permanent character injury; frostbite._

It was an argument over the contents of a laboratory. Lambert wanted to gut it, burn the lot and turn the damned room into something useful. Vesemir, the relic, had resisted. His torture equipment was too precious to throw away, apparently. Eskel pleaded with Lambert to understand; it was all Vesemir had left of ‘back then’, of the friends he’d lost. To them, they were just leather straps and wooden frames; writing desks and creaking chairs; apparatus of long-dead mages. Not to Vesemir though. They were his framed photographs; his relics of times gone.

 _Fine_. 

If Vesemir’s instruments of child murder were more important than the last remaining members of his school, then he could go fuck himself. They all could. Lambert left Kaer Morhen that spring planning never to return. He took only the bare essentials - his best shirts, his favourite book and a scratchy picture of Eskel that the bard had made during one of his winter stays - and turned his back for good.

He ignored Eskel’s wounded eyes because the bastard didn’t have a right to look that hurt. Sometimes you just shouldn’t be the neutral arbiter; _sometimes you needed to take a fucking side, Eskel._ Lambert still kept the picture tucked inside his gambeson, though. Where it would be warmed by his beating heart. 

It was that very same picture he clutched now as he shook in the winter storm. The Nilfgaardians had started a second fucking war because… _of course, they had._ And it just so happened to be the coldest winter the Continent had experienced in decades.

The villages, the towns; everything was waste. The refugees fled and died in the freezing temperatures; their bodies frozen, black mounds beneath an untouched blanket of white. Only a necrophage - with its mouth full of teeth and its long, squirming tongue - could hope to break through the ice to a worthy meal.

Lambert was about to become one such meal. Without a safe place to sleep, without a warm fire, without food, he was freezing to death. Every remaining synapse that still sparked inside his skull was driving him north. _Because north meant home._ North meant safety. Unfortunately for Lambert, it also meant colder temperatures, heavier snows and sparser game. He came across a family huddled in a network of caves. The kids were blue with cold, and Lambert handed over his gloves and last pair of thick wool socks. He remembered being as cold as a child. When his father was too drunk to chop more fuel, and Lambert too small or injured to lift the axe himself. _No kid deserved that._

His small act of charity proved to be his undoing. On his way through Temeria, he got caught in a blizzard. It took a few hours for the cold to bite through his cloak; he wrapped a scarf tightly around his face to save his nose, lips and eyes, but there was nothing he could do for his hands. Without the protection of his gloves - thick leather, lined in fur - his fingers turned bone white, then blue, and finally, the very tips began to edge in black.

_North. Go north._

His legs moved on autopilot, planting one foot in front of the other. He didn’t know where he was going now. In this state, he’d never reach the gates of Kaer Morhen before he froze to death, but it was all he had. North. The tall spires of Ellander appeared in the distance. Something clicked inside his mind. Something familiar. He steered east. The sensation in his right hand was gone; his wrist, his forearm. _Nothing._ He dared not look. The sight alone would snatch the last of his desire to keep walking. _What would be the point?_

There was no time for fear. No time to acknowledge the knot of misery forming in his chest. There was no foe to fight; no enemy to best. Just the endless cold. The colourless snow. He’d die in this sea of eternal white and no one would ever know.

The temple swam into view. Booted feet dragged on the cobblestones. Ancient hinges creaked. A figure in blue and white swayed through the opening gates.

Lambert’s legs buckled. He didn’t feel the impact as his face smashed into the floor.

_Darkness._

“He’s through the worst of it,” said an unfamiliar voice; soft, but stern, a woman but with enough years to get the measure of whoever was standing before her. “We couldn’t save it. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm,” the scrape of chair legs, “this is my fault. If I’d just - .”

“Now, now,” the woman snipped. “Feeling sorry for yourself, for him, won’t help. He’ll need strength. Reassurance.”

“I’m the last person he’ll want at his bedside.”

“Well, you’re the one that came for him, so you’ll have to do, won’t you?”

_More darkness._

Lambert stirred again. _Pain._ His eyes opened, adjusting slowly to the faint light of the early morning sun cutting through tall temple windows. He went to wipe his forehead, but nothing happened. His shoulder moved, his chest tensed, but there were no fingers on his brow. The chair at his bedside scraped across the floor again, but his visitor didn’t have time to get to his bedside before he saw it.

His right arm no longer existed. There was nothing below his bicep. _No - no!_ He kicked the blankets away and grabbed at the bandages, his left hand quaking.

“No, easy; _easy,_ son.” Vesemir leapt forward and pressed a hand into Lambert’s chest, the other snatching his wrist. “Calm. _Deep breaths._ Think, for a moment, _think_.”

“It’s - where - it’s -,” Lambert couldn’t choke the words out. He should’ve known. There was no saving a limb once the cold had bitten into it; he’d seen it enough as a child. Even Witchers were susceptible to frostbite.

“I know, I know,” Vesemir kept his hold firm; the pup wasn’t strong enough to thrash too much. “But it’s alright.”

Fear transformed into anger in the space of a single breath. It was Lambert’s defence mechanism. _His only one._ The default reaction to something so overwhelming; so unmanageable that his mind simply couldn’t process it. He shoved Vesemir in the chest and grit his teeth. “Get the fuck off me, get off!” 

Vesemir backed away, hands raised.

“This is your fault,” Lambert snarled. “You. You might as well have taken the knife to my flesh yourself. Your torture toys worth it, asshole? Are they?” _Bite back, old man._ Lambert shook with rage, but that’s all he could do; the only agency he had now was to wind up Vesemir until he snapped. Usually, he was good at it - the best, it was almost effortless - but his reluctant mentor simply looked at him. Sadly. _Fucking sadly._ “Say something.” Lambert croaked.

“I’m sorry,” Vesemir murmured.

“What?” 

“You’re right, were right.” Barely a whisper, but it was there. _An apology._

The first one Vesemir had ever given. There’d been no ‘sorry’ after Lambert had finished screaming in pain following the Grasses; no ‘sorry’ after every bruise and broken bone; no ‘sorry’ when Speartip had taken Voltehre; no ‘sorry’ after the Purges. But now, as Lambert lay in the Temple of Melitele, his finest asset lost to frostbite, the apology came. Vesemir sat down heavily. “I cling onto the past so furiously that I forget to cling onto the present. And I almost lost a huge part of it. Almost lost you.”

Lambert swallowed because there was a lump in his throat that didn’t belong there. He reasoned he was just feeling fucking vulnerable. _Fuck_. He could still feel his fingers; the ghost of a sword hilt against his palm. The tears prickled in his eyes and he turned his face away. “I don’t forgive you.”

“I know,” Vesemir whispered. “I never want you to. Never. I don’t deserve it. But know I’ll still be here, boy. Always.” 

Lambert drew in a stuttering breath and stared at the wall. Away from Vesemir. “Who called you?”

“Nenneke,” Vesemir motioned silently at one of the priestesses; they needed food, water. “She knows that should a son of the wolf school ever fall into her care that she’s to call me immediately.”

“Oh yeah? And how long’s that been a rule?”

“Since Geralt got his throat ripped out by a striga,” Vesemir rubbed his eyes. “I’ve sent messages. They’ll be here soon.”

Lambert’s head snapped around. “No.”

“Tough shit,” Vesemir growled back. “I told you. Not alone.” He reached up then to take the sketch of Eskel from where it sat on Lambert’s bedside and pressed it against his chest. Lambert took it in shaking fingers - _his only fingers_ \- and allowed the tears to fall as he looked at Eskel’s broad grin. There were so many uncertainties - would he ever wield a sword again? Would he ever walk the Path? Would he be locked in Kaer Morhen with Vesemir until the end of his days? _It didn’t matter._ He’d think about it later. He knew one thing for certain. Eskel. He needed Eskel. And he was on his way. 

Lambert sucked in a deep breath and flopped back into the pillow behind his head. He fell asleep with his palm on his chest, the sketch tucked beneath it, and Vesemir pulled the blankets up to his chin. “Sleep, pup. You’re safe now.”

* * *

**Day Seven: Evergreens**

_**A/N:** A sulky bard reminds Lambert of a solstice tradition he used to love as a child. He decides to introduce it to Kaer Morhen._

The bard sighed again. Loudly. _Pointedly._ It was the forty-eighth time. Perhaps even the forty-ninth. The others didn’t seem to notice, or they were simply too engrossed in their tasks to care. Eskel was sewing, his thick fingers somehow deft enough to weave the tightest stitch in the linen shirt across his lap, not the only tight thing - Lambert’s eyes wandered down to - 

_Sigh._

“For fuck’s sake, bard,” Lambert chucked his book at Jaskier’s back, catching him squarely between the shoulder blades. “Leave some air for the rest of us.” The others looked up in alarm, and Jaskier twisted his own arm behind his back to rub the point of impact.

“Was that really necessary?” He grumbled blue eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been puffing like a set of blacksmith’s bellows for the last two hours, _spit it out_ ,” Lambert uncurled from his spot by the fire and walked over to collect his book.

“I’ve just never spent such a _colourless_ solstice,” Jaskier said, biting back yet another sigh lest Lambert hurt the entire bookshelf at him next. “Don’t you have any solstice celebrations? Traditions?”

Four sets of golden eyes all blinked in confusion and, like they always did, three of them turned to Vesemir. The old wolf just shrugged. “No time during the winter. It was always about resting, stocking up for the snows, tending to the recruits who had -,” he glanced at Lambert, who was glaring daggers, “ - those that were left.”

“So, nothing,” Jaskier threw his hands up and then skulked to his lute. “Well, I’ll just have to bring colour and life to Kaer Morhen myself, won’t I? _Don’t groan like that, Eskel._ ”

While the others forgot about the conversation in a few hours, it wouldn’t leave Lambert’s mind. It rattled around in there like one of Jaskier’s shittier ballads. The bard wasn’t the only one with memories of the winter solstice. Evergreens adorned in streamers and symbolic trinkets. Dried fruits for a successful harvest, love charms for happiness, nuts for fertility and coins for wealth. Decorating the trees of the forest for Yule had been a village tradition and everyone was expected to partake. Lambert remembered his mother lifting him from the floor to place a love charm upon a prickly branch. 

_They asked for happiness every year._

There were special songs, and special foods, and Lambert remembered his first taste of mulled cider. _So sweet._ It’d cloyed on his tongue and made him buzz with energy for hours. The candles flickered in the darkness and Lambert liked to pretend they were winter fae hiding in the forest. He looked over at the other two; older than him, perhaps wiser, but their only experience of the winter solstice was this keep, shrouded in the darkness of the mountains.

The following few days were full of the usual chores, a bit of training and an argument over how to stack empty crates in the larder for the most efficient use of space, but instead of retiring to play cards and drink moonshine in the evenings, Lambert began to collect his trinkets together. He even sacrificed an hour or two of Eskel-time to make sure everything was _just right._

The afternoon finally arrived and Lambert collected them one by one from around the keep. Well, in Geralt’s case, he came with bard readily attached. He’d scattered his items over the dining room table and looked at them all expectantly. It was Jaskier who realised first, his gaze passing over the red string, the pine cones, the dried fruit, cranberries on yarn, metal disks that had been used to make the medallions, with twigs and more yarn to make runes. 

“Lambert!” Jaskier exclaimed, and bounded forward with his arms spread; Lambert placed a hand on his face and pushed him away.

“No touching, just… you know, get on with it,” he flicked a hand nonchalantly at the table, but Eskel was smiling at him. Eskel, who could see the small shimmer of excitement behind his eyes. Lambert jutted his chin at him and sat down on the bench at Vesemir’s side. They decorated the pine cones with some of the paints from the store; made garlands from fruit and nuts, and tied the small twigs together in runes. ‘Uruz’ for survival and endurance; ‘raidho’ for the journey, the Path; ‘ehwaz’ for… “Roach,” Geralt grinned. 

As the sun began to set, the witchers and the bard headed out into the crisp winter air. Cloaks wrapped tightly, furs across their shoulders, they walked up to the tree line and stood before the towering evergreens. Vesemir, Geralt and Jaskier stood there dumbly, their trinkets clutched in the sacks in their hands, and Lambert shifted from foot to foot. 

_Ahh, this was fucking stupid; he shouldn’t have bothered with -_

“Here,” Eskel rummaged around in his own bag and placed a charm in Lambert’s gloved hands. “For happiness.” 

The Witcher turned the small disk over in his palm. They’d drilled a hole through the top and Jaskier had passed one of the brightly coloured ties from his doublet through it. Lambert looked up at Eskel, with his honey-rich eyes and gentle smile, then headed over to the nearest bristly evergreen with his love at his side. He didn’t know why this felt so… _important._ But it did. Eskel’s hand stroked down his arm to the back of his, and together they hung the first charm upon the tree. It bounced gently, and for a moment Lambert thought it might fall, but it soon settled and the moonlight shone from its polished surface. He saw a flash of Eskel’s eyes reflected.

 _Lambert’s_ eyes were - urgh, was that -? For fuck’s sake. He rubbed his knuckles into his sockets, but Eskel was there before he could curl into a proverbial ball. “I like this tradition. I think we should do it every year.”

“Yeah?” Lambert’s heart beat hard in his chest, and he leaned back into Eskel’s arms as the others approached the tree next. Jaskier hopped up onto Geralt’s shoulders to decorate the higher branches, and Vesemir was fastidious in balancing the trinkets and charms in an even spread. By the time they were finished, the evergreen bore her decorations proudly; they added a candle or two around the base as night fell, and watched the flames flicker until the cold drove them inside.

Even then, Lambert stood in Eskel’s bedroom window and gazed down at the tree until two strong arms wrapped around his waist, coaxing him into bed. _Their tree. Just theirs._ And no one to take it away from him, or ruin it this time. 

As he curled up against Eskel’s side, Lambert realised all those love charms he’d placed upon the evergreens of Kaedwen in his mother’s arms might have worked after all… if only a little bit, and it’d taken fucking _decades_. He’d have to keep topping up the magic every year.

And so, the Yule Tree of Kaer Morhen was born.


	2. Week Two: Pass The Blanket, Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Week Two: Pass The Blanket, Asshole_ **
> 
> (8) [Tracks in the Snow](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637054174592385024/day-eight-tracks-in-the-snow-an-aiden-and); (9) [Freshly Baked Bread](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637059895478435840/day-nine-freshly-baked-bread-and-cookies-an); (10) [Lost in a Storm](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637150110258692096/day-ten-lost-in-a-storm-an-lambert-finds-geralt); (11) [Favourite Jumper](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637311257512443904/day-eleven-favourite-jumper-an-lambert-has-a); (12) [Snow Fort](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637386887129137152/day-twelve-snow-fort-an-lambert-watches-ciri); (13) [Rosy Cheeks](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637399349198995456/day-thirteen-rosy-cheeks-an-lambert-shaves-off); (14) [Walking in the Snow](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637585450865917952/day-fourteen-walking-in-the-snow-an-lambert-has)
> 
> * * *

**Day Eight: Tracks in the Snow**

**_A/N:_ ** _Aiden and Lambert have a fun tradition they indulge in every time Aiden winters at Kaer Morhen. **Warnings:** smut._

Lambert felt the excitement bubbling in his chest as the perfect layer of freshly fallen snow crunched underfoot. The turrets of Kaer Morhen loomed over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t be seeing them again for at least twenty-four hours. He was heading out into the wilderness with a handful of supplies, his swords and a heavy, fur-lined cloak. 

Don’t get him wrong, he fucking hated winter, but there was one ritual that he’d taken to in recent years that made the frozen bollocks and growling stomachs of these spaser months so worth it.

_Hunt. The. Kitty._

_Oh yes._

It was the best hare-brained scheme Aiden had ever conceived, and it made every part of Lambert quake with anticipation. The result was always a naked Aiden, smothered in blankets, with a warm fire, hot food and a bottle of ale. Some might call it a risky endeavour; the mountains were treacherous at the best of times, with avalanches following heavy snowfall, slumbering monsters hidden in their caverns and the ever-present threat of hypothermia. But that was all part of the fun. 

The thrill of the chase. The ever-present danger of the wilderness. Lambert didn’t look back as he headed into the crisp winter morning, knowing full well that the others were watching him leave with heavy, judgemental gazes. Yeah, well, fuck ‘em. 

Aiden was difficult prey. He trod lightly, backtracked and led Lambert in a merry circle around the keep. Lambert crouched by lifeless bushes and tall evergreens, running his gloved fingers across snapped twigs and disturbed undergrowth. The trail could be from anything - a grouse pecking at the bark, a fox hunting rabbits, a stray member of the scoia’tael wandering too high off the trail - but Lambert’s keen nose could pick up Aiden’s scent with ease. It was deep, almost saccharine, curling through him like an invisible hand beckoning him onwards.

The latest snowfall had covered most of the tracks, but Lambert still found the odd indentation here and there that betrayed recent humanoid activity. Aiden was making him work for it this year. At once point, he’d left the ground altogether, ascending into the trees to take a different path. Lambert followed the trail of skewed branches, the bark saturated with his lover’s scent. His heart thundered in his chest, the thrill greater than hunting even the most formidable of beasts. There was no chase to be had. When he found Aiden, his prize was assured.

 _It was the suspense._ The building pressure in the pit of his stomach. As the trail became fresher, he could taste Aiden on the air. His mouth open as he panted, eager, almost desperate, to run his bare hands across scarred skin and mark it with his own imprints that no one else would ever see.

The tracks, scents and markers brought him to the foot of a sheer cliff. No one but a Witcher would be able to ascend its craggy face, and even then the more cumbersome of their brotherhood would find it an impossible task. Lambert had spent far too long in Aiden’s company to be considered cumbersome. He adjusted his sword belts, removed his gloves to improve his grip, and began his climb. It was gruelling. The muscles in his arms and thighs soon burned with exertion, panting breaths insufficient for the speed of his ascent; the faster his heartbeat, the higher he climbed, the more excited he became.

_Aiden._

He could practically hear his name in the wind. The lip of the ledge appeared and numb fingers preceded scuffed palms as he pulled himself over. His nose filled with the scent of the burning fires; mulled cider this year, not ale, cinnamon rolls and cooked meat. The picnic to reward the successful hunter. There was only one morsel Lambert was interested in though. The firelight lapped out the cave mouth, and as Lambert stepped beneath its shelter, he felt the warmth wash over him.

The blankets were laid out over the floor, with a few pillows scattered here and there. Aiden had prepared; in fact, Lambert was always baffled and humbled by how much effort his Cat put into this little game. He would’ve had to carry all of this up here by himself. Multiple trips, multiple days. He was as exhausted as every Witcher in that fucking keep, yet still, he insisted. One of the blankets moved as Lambert strolled into the firelight, his pupils blown wide, his chest still heaving as his body recuperated the oxygen debt. 

“A whole three hours quicker,” Aiden murmured as he slipped into view. His auburn hair hung loosely around his shoulders, his beard neatly trimmed, his luminescent green eyes that reminded Lambert of the forests beyond the mountains were piercing, mischievous. 

“Hmm,” Lambert grunted. He picked loose one of the buckles on his belts and lifted his swords over his head; they fell to the floor with a loud thump, followed closely by the bag of meagre supplies he’d brought with him in case of a sudden blizzard. His sultry feline slipped across the floor, unfolding to his feet in a single, fluid movement that made the breath stick in Lambert’s throat. As Aiden drew closer, Lambert caught the whiff of sweet oils that only ever meant one thing; his lover had been working himself open while awaiting Lambert’s arrival.

Dexterous fingers pushed across his jaw, blunt nails raking over his beard, and his eyes fluttered with pleasure. Soft, warm lips breathed life back into his cold, chapped skin; a hot tongue that teased in gentle laps before Aiden pulled away with a final tug on his lower lip. He was completely naked, his cock already hard as it pressed against the chill leather of Lambert’s trousers. Aiden hissed and pulled back, lower lip jutted in a pout, as he stroked over the clasps and ties of Lambert’s gambeson. “Gonna’ make me beg, kitten?”

Lambert raised an eyebrow and then glanced meaningfully at the floor. He hadn’t touched Aiden but for their kiss, his arms down at his side, his fingers twitching as he held back on the desire to follow those crooked, white lines on olive skin. He didn’t need to say anything. Aiden sank slowly to his knees at Lambert’s feet and leaned forward to nuzzle over the prominent bulge in the front of his codpiece.

“Mmm, so good,” Aiden growled; hot breath condensing on chill leather as he drank in the musk of his wolf, picking open the ties with his teeth as he gripped the back of Lambert’s booted calves. He had to let them go to retrieve his prize though; Lambert’s arousal swelled down his trouser leg, the thick shaft trapped in folds of material. Aiden grinned as he finally slid his fingers down satin skin and heard the first stuttering breath of barely contained pleasure. There was a single bead of pre-come dripping from the slit, and Aiden extended his tongue to lap it up with just the tip.

Lambert clenched his teeth, vision swimming as he fought the desire to close his eyes, to grab the back of Aiden’s head and claim his mouth. The game wasn’t over. Not yet. That skilful tongue slipped over his frenulum in a salacious little wiggle as warm fingers slid down his length, following the contours of the thick, throbbing veins boasting the extent of his arousal. Aiden’s nose followed in their wake, burying in the dark, coarse curls around Lambert’s groin and balls. “Fuck, you’re delicious.” A low, feral growl as he drew back, and then finally sucked Lambert’s head into his mouth with a soft groan.

Finally, Lambert allowed himself to touch. He slid his hands through that soft, auburn hair and gripped two fistfuls as Aiden’s head bobbed over him; the crackle of the fire accompanied by the filthy slurp of a hardworking mouth. Aiden swallowed him with effort, throat spasming as he choked himself in eagerness, his tongue swirling around every inch he could reach as he drew back. His fingers stroked gently over Lambert’s balls as they curled tight against his body, and the vibrations of his needy whines curled like a physical force at the base of Lambert’s spine.

“Enough,” Lambert croaked, grip tightening to pull Aiden off his cock. “Over there. The only place I want to come is inside you.”

Aiden purred in delight and scrambled out of Lambert’s grasp to the nest of pillows and blankets he’d spent several hours hauling up that damned cliff face. His spine arched as he dropped to his hands and knees, thighs splaying, fingers kneading eagerly; a wanton sprawl for Lambert to drink in as he stalked over in Aiden’s wake. 

He’d been right about the preparation. Aiden’s hole was slick and puffy; the pink muscles relaxed enough for the girth of Lambert’s cock. The wolf sank to his knees between Aiden’s calves, one hand stroking gently over his hip while the other gripped the base of his cock. He tapped his shaft against that beautiful furl, clenching and eager. “Ask nicely.”

“Lambert,” Aiden dropped his face into his forearms with an irritated growl. “Fuck me. _Please._ ” Hissed through clenched teeth, only for his face to fall completely slack when Lambert lined up and sank into him in one hard thrust. There was something decadent about his lover being fully clothed when they fucked for the first time; his armour still in place, the reinforced metal of his boots scraping across the cave floor as he thrust with slow, graceful rolls of the hips. 

Aiden could feel the cool texture of his leather chaps against his balls, the harsh hem of his gambeson on the tender skin of his ass, and it made him shake with need. “Fuck, _fuck_ … Lambert, fucking… _ahh_.” With the final crumbs of his composure, Aiden looked over his shoulder to marvel at the sight of his wolf coming undone; his head thrown back, his sunstone yellow eyes closed as his full lips parted. The grip on his hips was gentle, but commanding; Aiden was his to claim. “Please, please… harder, I need it– _hngh_!”

The pace quickened, and Lambert blanketed him, hips grinding him into the blankets in unapologetic demand. Aiden remembered at some point to drop a hand beneath him to touch his own cock, but the sensation was nothing compared to the overwhelming pressure of Lambert inside him; the precious burn of having a lover that was almost too much for your body to handle. Lambert knew the perfect angle, the exact spot that made Aiden keen, his own hand flailing pathetically for some kind of rhythm. It was the power of his wolf that built his orgasm, and Aiden arched with a cry as he soaked his own fingers.

The desperate grip of his body was enough for Lambert to follow after a few more unsteady, stuttering thrusts. Aiden groaned in bliss as his wolf filled him, and then again when he withdrew and the evidence of their passion dripped down his thighs. “There’s booze in the basket,” Aiden grumbled, only semi-coherent.

Still panting, cock hanging out of his trousers, Lambert swaggered on over to collect the rest of his reward. “Huh, Kaedweni stout.”

“Only the greatest extravagance for the Biggest Dick of Kaer Morhen,” Aiden sighed as he flopped over onto his back.

Lambert smirked into the neck of his bottle. Aiden was either calling him a dick, or The Dick. Rather than ask, Lambert decided he was fine with both and drank his ale smugly. _Real smugly._

* * *

**Day Nine: Freshly Baked Bread (and Cookies)**

_**A/N:** Eskel’s baking. Lambert can’t contain himself. **Warnings:** baking._

Lambert stood at the far end of the kitchen pretending he was busy with the stack of dried herbs by his elbow, but he couldn’t help but keep an eye on Eskel. _I mean, could you really blame him?_

The big guy had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a heavy apron wrapped around his waist, and those thick arms were _moving;_ forearms flexing, biceps stretching the folded linen around them; strong shoulders dipping and squaring with each rehearsed movement. **  
**

Eskel had been baking all morning. The entire kitchen was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread, sweet buns and cinnamon rolls, and now he was on the final treat of the day; the chocolate chip cookies. _Chocolate._ It was so fucking expensive, but the bard had managed to source some and Eskel had lovingly turned it into little drops of sweet, sweet heaven. The cookies would taste out of this world. Lambert’s mouth was watering so much he was having to wash it down periodically with mulled cider. Luckily, there was an entire vat brewed up by Vesemir sitting under the window.

The dough was like clay in the hands of a god; Eskel pushed with the heels of his flour-covered hands and kneaded back with his fingers, spreading the dough out across the wooden work surface, before gathering it up and flipping it over for another go over. Lambert was hypnotised. At one point, he was staring at the dough for so long he almost cut the tip of his thumb off while shredding up wolfsbane. Eskel sprinkled in the chocolate drops and worked them into the dough, before grabbing a baking tray to grease up.

_Hngh._

_No. Wait. Wait… let Eskel finish and then make your move._ Lambert drew in a shuddery breath and tried to focus on the herbs on the table in front of him. It was difficult.

Eskel separated his mixture into individual little mounds and placed them lovingly on the tray. “Huh, where’s the - ?” He glanced around with a furrowed brow and scratched his head with one doughy finger, leaving behind a smear of flour. “Be right back…” And then he wandered off.

_Lambert’s time had come._

He tried not to fucking _bounce_ up to the tray, but there was a definite spring in his step. The mixing bowl was his first port of call, and he grabbed the wooden spoon still heaped with the leftover mixture. He groaned when it touched his tongue, the sweet, cloying mixture sticking to the insides of his teeth as he chewed it away. While he was biding his time, he’d convinced himself he’d stick with the spoon. _Just the spoon._ It’s all he needed. Just a little lick. _That’s all._ All he -

But his gaze dropped to the bowl, and suddenly he was scooping out the last measly scraps of dough from the bottom. It still wasn’t enough. With a low groan at his own weakness, he finally looked at that tray of carefully placed piles of stodge. _Oh gods, oh gods, oh -_

Eskel re-entered with the cookie cutting shapes he’d made earlier that week to finding Lambert hunched over his tray of unbaked cookies. _Well, a former tray of unbaked cookies; they were rapidly disappearing._ There were some rather suspect sounding grunts of pleasure, and then Lambert looked up suddenly. There was cookie mixture and flour smeared around his face. Their eyes locked.

A breathless moment passed and Eskel’s mouth dropped open.

Then, suddenly, Lambert started to chew furiously. Eskel growled. “You rat bastard!” Cookie cutting shapes forgotten, he leapt forward with a level of dexterity a man his size should not reasonably possess and grabbed Lambert by the chin. “They’re not cooked! You’re going to shit through the eye of a needle, you fucking idiot, drop it. Drop. It!” 

“Unfgr so frukin’ goodf,” Lambert tried to struggle away, still chewing even as Eskel grabbed his chin and tried to force his fingers between his teeth. “F-rine, f-rine!” His jaw went slack and he allowed Eskel to scoop the mixture out of his mouth with his forefinger. Eyes wild, Lambert fled from the kitchen looking far too pleased with himself, leaving Eskel to stand there staring forlornly at his tray of unbaked goods. At least he had about half left. _He should’ve known better than to leave the vulnerable mixture unattended._ This wasn’t the first time, but he’d been excited about using his new cookie cutters…

“Every fucking year,” Eskel grumbled. “Every. Fucking. Year.”

* * *

**Day Ten: Lost in a Storm**

_**A/N:** Lambert finds Geralt buried in the snow on his way home for the winter. While they warm up in the shelter of a cave, Lambert’s old feelings for the White Wolf begin to resurface._

During a blizzard in Morhen Valley, there were generally only a handful of rules. Keep your head covered, fingers in your gloves and find shelter as quickly as possible to wait it out. 

There was no fighting through it. The weather wasn’t some beast to overcome; it was a force of nature. Only a fool struggled through the relentless lash of ice, wind and snow to make a meagre few miles progress in a day. Even then, it was sometimes impossible to tell whether you were going in the right direction. The snow played tricks on weary minds and sent them spinning in circles.

Lambert had pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. The ice had piled onto the tops of his bags, and his swords felt like deadweights under the snow that had accumulated across the top, between his shoulders and back. If he hadn’t glanced to his left, gaze drawn by a small, black shape amongst the endless white, then he would’ve missed him completely.

As he squinted into the mist and the snow, his keen eyes began to pick out features; an arm, the hilts of swords, folds of burlap covered in white. Something dragged Lambert off the beaten track. Usually, he was a ‘not my problem’ kinda’ guy, but fate had intervened and he approached the fallen figure with a furrowed brow…

“Oh shit.” His exclamation lost to the frigid air and he swung his bag around his back. Armoured knees sank into the snow, and he reached out to drag the half-buried figure out by the straps of his sword belts. “Geralt.”

A Witcher could survive in the most adverse conditions, but Geralt was barely breathing. His body had slowed right down to try and compensate for everything else. Lambert leaned down and pressed his ear to Geralt’s lips, and his heart loosened just a touch when he felt the flutter of breath across his skin. _But only just._

Tired, but relatively well-fed, it took Lambert a bit of grunting and wheezing to haul Geralt’s deadweight from the floor - “oh my - you fat _fuck_ ,” - and they continued the rest of the short journey together. Lambert knew these hills. Knew every tree, every craggy outcrop, every frozen river. He’d found a small cave system they’d cleared out many years ago. Sometimes a bear moved in for the winter, but they were lucky this year. It was empty.

Lambert placed Geralt towards the back where the wind couldn’t touch him and paused to check his pulse now that he could safely remove his gloves. Reedy at best. What the fuck had he been doing out there? How long had he been lying in the snow? The storm had been raging for hours. He had to leave the cave briefly to collect fuel, so crowded his packs around Geralt to provide some insulation. 

When he returned with an armful of relatively dry twigs and logs, Geralt had moved slightly. His arm now draped over one of the bags, his face buried away against the warmer layers of cloth that had rested against Lambert’s back. With a little help from igni, Lambert soon had a lively fire crackling away and he took a moment to thaw his fingers before returning to Geralt. Where the fuck was Roach? She wouldn’t have left her Witcher. Perhaps she’d found shelter - perhaps - 

There was no way he’d find that fucking horse in a blizzard like this, so Lambert turned his attention to the belts and buckles of Geralt’s armour. He needed heat. Body heat, preferably, and now that he was in a shelter with a fire nearby, Lambert had plenty. Geralt’s limbs flopped around lifelessly, and Lambert tried to ignore the blue tinge to his lips and jaw beneath the coarse white hair of his beard. _Get naked. Get snuggly._ Lambert laid out his bedroll and dragged Geralt onto it. Beneath the layer of Lambert’s cloak and their collective clothes, Lambert held Geralt’s bare form close to his chest. He allowed himself to shake with the cold; the fitful jerks of his body would only heat their cocoon more quickly.

_Fucking idiot. Why was he out there?_

As time passed, the wind howled, and the hair melted from Geralt’s head, Lambert could see the lump beneath his hair. Someone had clubbed him well. Not only that, but there was a greyish tinge to his skin that had nothing to do with the cold. Lambert buried his nose against Geralt’s skin - the crook of his neck, just beneath his jaw - and breathed deeply. _Yeah, there it was._ Something toxic. It underpinned Geralt’s scent with a sickly odour. That would explain how someone - probably bandits - had managed to take a Witcher by surprise.

_Bringing more shit up the mountain for us to deal with…_

Lambert growled and held Geralt a little tighter. Nothing ever changed. _Always causing shit, but you never have to deal with the fallout, pretty boy._ Because every time Geralt fucked up; every time he made a poor choice, or pissed off the wrong sorcerer, or attached himself to the most infuriating sorceress this side of the Blue Mountains; Eskel, Vesemir and Lambert were always there to prop him up.

_And you don’t even notice, do you?_

Lambert heaved a deep sigh. _No, Geralt never noticed._ Vesemir and Eskel, perhaps, but not Lambert. _Lambert_ was the irritating thorn in his side; the snarky asshole that Geralt simply couldn’t decode. Even after all those years, Lambert had helped raise Ciri, and then nearly lost his life fighting for her, even after their exchange at the Circle of Elements and the days following, Geralt had never… _seen._

Because Lambert’s relationship with Geralt was complicated. They were brothers-in-arms, members of the same shitty murder school, but that’s where their similarities and links ended. Lambert’s parents were shit-dwelling peasants from the arse-end of Kaedwen; his father a drunk, his mother another farmer’s daughter. 

_He was nothing._

And then there was Geralt; destiny’s fucking love child. His mother; a sorceress, his father; some famous hero or god, or… whatever. With his extra mutations, his snowy white hair, his - just - his - Geralt. _His fucking ‘Geralt’, alright?_

Lambert had been absolutely infatuated with him from the moment he’d been old enough to feel that kinda’ shit. It broke through even the thick layers of anger that shielded him in spiteful armour. He admired Geralt; wanted to be like him. But the older he became, the more life shat on him, the more Lambert came to realise he never could be. And he would never have Geralt either because that’s what it was about really, wasn’t it? You tried to emulate those you looked up to - those you loved - and… _Lambert might’ve… at one point…_

He pulled away from Geralt’s body, now humming with its own internal heat. The blue hue had vanished from his cheeks and lips, and his eyes were flickering to and fro beneath their lids. 

_What’re you dreaming about, pretty boy?_

_A pretty sorceress? With long raven hair and startling violet eyes, or perhaps a broad Witcher with a heart of gold and a smile reserved for only his most beloved? Maybe a bard with his crappy moustache and endless chatter? Or maybe… Nah._

His lips were parted. Lambert stared at them. _I mean, he knew what they fucking looked like._ He’d admired them enough over the years. Always discreetly. When Geralt wasn’t looking directly at him. The lower one was plush, despite the chapped skin around the outside, and Geralt had a little nick in the upper where he’d been smacked in the face at just the right angle to leave a mark.

Lambert reached out before he knew what was doing. Their naked bodies pressed together like this, he was foolish for enticing himself. But he just couldn’t fucking help it. He’d never been good at impulse control. Very slowly - _gently_ \- he brushed a fingertip over that little mark. He felt the raised tissue and then the softer skin either side. How many people had kissed him? Just right there. Lambert had thought sleeping with one of Geralt’s former conquests might make him feel a bit closer, but… fuck, he didn’t know. Post-battle weariness.

_I could kiss you now and you’d never know._

The thought popped into his head suddenly and his breath caught in his chest. He could do it and… just see what it felt like. Just once. Kissing a sleeping man wasn’t… _bad._ It wasn’t like sticking your hand down his braies for a fondle, or -

Lambert leaned a little closer. His mouth felt dry. His eyes fixated on that little scar, and that thick, enticing lower lip. No tongue. Just a small taste of what could be - it was fine, no one would ever know, _Geralt would never know, it -_

“Mmm,” Geralt groaned as his eyes flickered open and Lambert threw himself away. “Lambert - ?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘bout time you woke up, you lazy dickhead,” Lambert growled, carefully folding the edge of his cloak between them. “Thought we were gonna’ have to hibernate in here all winter.”

“What happened - ?”

“I found you out in the snow. Looks like someone got the drop on you. Getting lax in your winter years, old man,” Lambert hid his hammering heart with a smirk. In his dazed state, none of Geralt’s senses would be helping him.

The White Wolf squinted at the ceiling of the cavern in confusion as his memories slowly aligned to tell the story of his demise. “Oh, fuck, I drank something for a contract. Some witch gave it to me, and - .” He stopped abruptly as Lambert’s palm clamped over his mouth.

“And we’ve just reached my daily quota of stupid. We can continue this story tomorrow.” He shook his head. _Of course, drink the suspect decoction given to you by the hedgewitch, uh-huh. Foolproof._ “Gonna’ lift my hand, and all I want to hear is how your head’s feeling.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes but took a moment to assess as Lambert’s palm lifted away. “Like I’ve gone ten rounds of Gwent with you and Eskel, and the forfeit’s your moonshine.”

“Fuck,” Lambert sucked in a breath through his teeth. “That bad, huh? Better get some sleep. I’ll head out for food when the storm’s done.”

“Lambert,” Geralt said his name so seriously and Lambert raised an eyebrow. There’d be no question as to their nudity - it’s what you did when you found someone out in the cold, they both knew that - but perhaps it was the proximity of Lambert’s face when he awoke? Lambert tried to cover his trepidation with bravado. But there was no need, because the next words that whispered over Geralt’s lips were, “thank you,” as he closed his eyes.

Lambert huffed. “Not the first time I’ve saved your ass, won’t be the last.” 

His only response was a faint, wry smile; Lambert was left in the land of the living by himself, with only his shame and his regret. His mind hummed with it - the clusterfuck of emotion and rejection swirling around like snowflakes whipped up by vicious winds - and he knew it would take days for _everything_ inside to settle again.

 _Fuck._ Around Geralt, Lambert always felt like he was lost in a storm…

* * *

**Day Eleven: Favourite Jumper**

**_A/N:_ ** _Lambert has a favourite jumper that helps him stave off the cold and the loneliness of the winter months at Kaer Morhen. It’s tatty and threadbare, but he wears it religiously all season. The others know better than to question. **Warnings:** sad, with comfort; vague mention of canon character death._

Everyone knows the rule. You don’t touch the jumper. Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel; they don’t go anywhere near it. No matter how grungy or frayed it becomes, they know an offer to launder or repair it would be met with bared teeth and tense shoulders. It’s Lambert’s favourite jumper. A simple red pullover, with a circular neck and a huge hole in the shoulder. He washes in religiously once a winter and then spends every evening in it.

They don’t comment. Not anymore. They don’t offer a warmer item of clothing, because nothing else would compare; nothing would provide the same level of warmth the jumper does. Because it’s not just a physical thing. They know who that jumper belonged to.

Then one winter, Jaskier arrives at Kaer Morhen. He realises quickly that it’s colder than Gaunter O’Dimm’s soul and wraps himself in every available layer he can get his hands on. When he finds a slightly tired looking jumper drying in the midday sun, he feels the material carefully before unpegging it and pulling it over his head. When he’d arrived, Vesemir had said the words ‘what’s ours is yours’, so that included the tatty, freshly laundered jumper.

He heads inside and thinks nothing of it.

Until there’s a small detonation in the Grand Hall. “Where is it?” Lambert roars. The keep shakes with the force of his desperate rage.

Eskel stumbles upstairs from the kitchen, Geralt appears from the stables and Vesemir looks up tiredly from his seat by the fire. “Where’s what?”

“His jumper,” Lambert snarls. “If one of you fucks took it, I’ll fucking kill you. I swear to g—.”

“Geralt, I’m thinking we should probably air out your room, it’s smelling awfully musty, I—,” Jaskier ambles into view, a heavy leather tome in one hand and Lambert’s jumper hanging droopily off of his frame. The bard isn’t a small man, but the jumper itself has been stretched and tugged for many years now; it’s essentially shapeless. He looks up into three gawking faces and one angry one. “What?”

“Take it off,” Lambert growls, his voice dangerously low.

“Jaskier—,” Geralt starts, leaving his position in the doorway at a rate of knots. He’s only just quick enough to slide himself between his bard and his brother, arms spread. “He didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what? Not to help himself to other people’s shit?” Lambert’s trying to sidestep around Geralt, who is quick to shimmy into his path. Jaskier, who’s far from slow, has dropped his book and is in the process of pulling the jumper quickly over his head.

“I’m sorry, I—it was just hanging outside, battered old thing, I didn’t think anyone’d mind, I’m terribly so—.” He gets it caught on his head for a moment, and flinches when he catches the sound of tearing fabric. Everyone freezes and then there’s a sudden flurry of movement as Geralt launches forward to catch Lambert in a bear hug as Jaskier eases the jumper the rest of the way. The damage is minimal; the already existing hole in the shoulder is just slightly bigger.

Geralt releases Lambert after a murmured warning and then takes the jumper from Jaskier to offer it out. “He’s sorry. It was an honest mistake.’

“I really am, terribly so—.”

“Shut up,” Lambert snaps and takes his prize from Geralt’s hands. After a brief inspection, he turns his back and disappears into the castle.

The remaining Witchers let out a collective breath, and Jaskier turns to Geralt. “I’m—,” he stutters, but Geralt pulls him into a tight, one-armed hug and presses a kiss into his scruffy brown hair.

“It’s fine, don’t worry, it’s just—it has a lot of sentimental value,” Geralt murmurs, and Eskel joins them to pat Jaskier on the back.

“It belonged to a…” Eskel trails off casts a glance up at Geralt and then heaves a sigh. “It belonged to his lover. He never fuckin’ said it, but we know. And—he, uh, he died a few years ago. It’s the only thing he has left.”

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier’s eyes welled up with tears. “I feel horrendous.”

“Look, don’t worry about it,” Eskel smiles; lopsided, bashful, gorgeous. “I’ll go find him when he’s done some cooling off. Just give him some space.”

They _all_ gave Lambert some space and he ascended the walls of Kaer Morhen until he sat in its highest turret. Eskel found him later that evening; he was the only other person that knew the safe route up to the roof, and he carried a thicker cloak and two bottles of ale on his back.

“Fuck off, Eskel,” Lambert says the moment Eskel’s head appears above the roofline.

“Umm, no,” Eskel replies blithely and hauls himself up with a quiet grunt of effort. He dumps the cloak over Lambert’s shoulders and shoves a bottle of ale into his hands. “He’s sorry, you know.”

“Yeah,” Lambert sniffs, before using his teeth to pry the cork out of the neck of the bottle; he spits it out into the void the moment it’s free. “He’s just an entitled asshole. Thinks he can pick up anything and just—.”

“Lambert,” Eskel growls, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “Even you know it was an accident. It’s fucking cold up here if you’re not used to it. You of all people know that—should appreciate what he’s going through.”

There’s a grumble of ascent, but other than that, Lambert falls silent. The wind moans through the valley, the evergreens creak and a distant forktail bellows into the sky. “I miss him so fuckin’ much,” Lambert croaks, eventually.

Eskel sighs and drapes an arm around Lambert’s shoulders. There’s no resistance when he pulls him close and turns his face down into his hair. He can smell the salt on the air; the bitter misery leaking from Lambert’s pores. The winter is lonely at the best of times, but for Lambert, it’s like a bottomless pit of… nothing. “I know,” Eskel whispers. “I know.”

He holds Lambert as he cries, and then they drink to Aiden’s memory together. Lambert kneads lovingly at the tattered old jumper the whole time.

* * *

**Day Twelve: Snow Fort**

_**A/N:** Lambert watches Ciri curl in on herself as the pressures of training weigh heavily. They risk losing their bright, bubbly Ciri; full of life and hope. But it’s not fucking happening; not on his watch._

“Straighten your shoulders girl!”

“Hold that sword higher!”

“You call that a pirouette? Again.”

“You need to finish this chapter by lunchtime, or we’re skipping it to run drills.”

“Focus, Ciri. This isn’t a game.”

Ciri’s training was going… well. Ish. Lambert took over her footwork drills on Geralt’s request, but listening to Vesemir berate her, and then Yen call her “ugly duckling” while critiquing her concentration, and Eskel put pressure on her to learn these recipes off by heart, put him in a shitty mood. By the end of every day, there was a small, dejected girl sitting by the fire, picking at the scabs on her hands. She didn’t talk much in those late hours and he carried her up to bed draped over his shoulder most nights; he tucked her in and told her stories that he remembered from Kaedwen.

But he knew that look. He felt that look in his very bones. It was the ‘I’m not good enough, and I’ll never be good enough for these people’ look. He’d worn it himself every damned day of his training. Ciri never bit back. Not properly. Sure, she was cheeky, and sometimes she skipped out on reading the few dusty tomes they pulled from the chaos of the library to run the scaffolds, but she was a good kid. Driven. And the weight of destiny on her shoulders was heavier than the damned mountains themselves.

She deserved a break.

So, when it came time to practice her footwork on the poles, Lambert led her outside the walls to a huge snowdrift in the shadow of the keep. It’d snowed heavily the night before, so an entire indent in the rocks was filled with snow. “You’re going to make me shovel snow?” She asked, her shoulders already sagging. “This meant to strengthen my arms or something?”

“Well, we will be shovelling some snow,” Lambert squared his fingers as if to present a portrait, drawing them away from his eyes and zooming in; measuring up. “Ever built a snow fort?”

“A snow what—?” She squinted at him quizzically.

“A snow fort,” Lambert planted his hands on his hips and gazed down at her with quirked eyebrows. “You know, a fort made of snow. Keep up, Ciri. The witch said you were sharp.”

She growled. “No, I haven’t… there was never a lot of snow in Cintra. Not like up here. Hasn’t really come up in Vesemir’s training manual either.”

“Huh, well, I—as your instructor—will seek to remedy this heinous oversight,” he stooped, grabbed an armful of snow and dumped it over her head. The snowball fight that followed was brief, and soon they got to work plotting out and then building their snow fort. Lambert taught Ciri some dwarven working songs, replete with rude words and slurs left in, and she chuckled every time he translated for her.

They fashioned bricks out of compact snow and ice, and reinforced their walls by patting more into the cracks between each uneven oblong, and began plotting their fortifications. “Battlements and arrow-slits, Ciri. They’re a must.”

“Do you think we could do a moat? With a drawbridge?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure if we could get the snow to raise and lower, but—fuck it, we’ll give it a good ol’ Temerian Try.”

They were so engrossed in their task that they didn’t notice the lack of… intervention. Ciri’s alchemy class, her meditation instruction, her sword drills; no one came out to collect her. The only other presence that appeared briefly was Eskel, with a tray of food and some cider—watered-down wine for Ciri—to tide them over for lunch.

As the sun began to set—it always happened early during the winter—they put the finishing touches on their project. It was easily half a person taller than Lambert, with an “open plan” interior. Several small mounds allowed Ciri to peek over the top of her battlements. The drawbridge hadn’t quite worked, but there was definitely a bridge over the moat they’d dug.

They sat back on Lambert’s cloak—Lambert sipped at his cider, while she munched on a sweet bun—admiring their handiwork. “What now?”

“Huh?” Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“Well, what do we do with it now? Like… it has a purpose, right? Are you going to show me, uh, I don’t know… some tactics, or—?”

Lambert sighed. “Ciri, sometimes, you just gotta’ do shit for the giggles, you know?”

“Do shi—.”

“No, you hear the words, but you don’t repeat the words,” Lambert cuffed her on the back of the head. “What I’m trying to say is, if your life’s all about doing things to achieve some higher goal, you’re always going to feel… incomplete. Occasionally, you’ve got to do things for fun. Just because you can, just because you want to. Otherwise, you turn into Geralt and Eskel,“ he paused, leaving off the ‘and me’. "Did you have fun?” She’d certainly smiled more today than he’d seen in months. And laughed. And swore, but we’re ignoring that.

“Hm,” she considered this, her mind floating back to her time spent in the streets of Cintra playing dice with urchins, the games she used to play around the castle with the chambermaid’s daughter. How had she managed to lose that girl in all this? Fun used to be her main purpose in life. “Yeah…”

She left the cloak and ducked into her fort. Lambert listened to her rustle around inside, and then a platinum-blonde head popped up above the battlements. In one hand, she held a snowball aloft. Lambert smirked. “Ciri, if you throw that, no amount of snow-fort is gonna’ protect you.”

“Bring it, stinky rat-man.” She threw the snowball. Lambert rolled out of the way just in time, and it shattered over the frozen ground.

“Holy fu—you are so dead, squirt,” Lambert rolled to his feet, dived behind a nearby unused mound of snow and assembled his ammunition.

Eskel watched at Geralt’s side from one of the castle windows, his arms folded. "Hm.”

“What?” Geralt looked over.

“You were right, she needed it; a day off. I can see our Ciri again,” Eskel rubbed idly at his scars.

“Yeah. They both did. Any more murderous glances from Lambert and I was gonna start checking my ass for knives every morning.”

Eskel’s booming laugh filled the room and Geralt smiled as he watched his daughter at play.

* * *

**Day Thirteen: Rosy Cheeks**

_**A/N:** Lambert shaves off a huge portion of his beard accidentally and is then forced to remove it all when he’s unable to salvage it. He knows his arse is going to get handed to him by the others and the rest of the winter’s going to be hell; Aiden has other ideas._

Once they got into deep winter, Lambert’s body started to channel its inner Gemmerian and his beard became somewhat unruly. Aiden only tolerated it for so long before Lambert was dispatched to the shaving bowl with some oils and a straight razor. It was midafternoon, Eskel had Ciri in one of the workrooms nearby practising bomb-making - _Lambert was no longer trusted with this task_ \- and so he took the opportunity to have a bit of a tidy up.

Shirt chucked on the bed, a towel draped over his shoulder, he peered into the aged, cracked, smeary surface of the only mirror he had access to without having to actually talk to Vesemir, and began to prune back the scraggly mass on his face. Lathered up, he swept the razor carefully up his throat and around his jaw, taming the line of his beard back to its usual place, and then - 

_Boom!_

The entire castle shook. Ciri had thrown a powerful dancing star bomb out into the courtyard, and Lambert could hear her yips of triumph. It was an impressive bang, but it’d claimed a more _devastating_ victim than a few unsuspecting target dummies. Lambert stared into the mirror with wide-eyed shock. The explosion had caused him to jump spectacularly; he hadn’t cut into his skin, but he’d wicked off a huge part of his beard in one startled swoop. 

His gaze dropped into the bowl where the remnants of the left part of his beard floated on top of the soap suds. Mocking him. “Fuck,” he breathed, barely able to comprehend the gravity of what had just occurred. _“Fuck,”_ said with more gusto as he leaned closer. _This wasn’t salvageable_. There was no fucking way he could walk downstairs with a beard like this and not get his arse royally handed to him by the dickheads currently whooping in the courtyard.

 _No. Wait, he could save it - he - right._ Just a little bit off on the right side - you know, to match, and then a bit off underneath to bring it all into line. _Ahh, now that looked fucking horrific_. Maybe a moustache and a goatee? _Oh, fuck, now he looked like the bard; he’d sooner die than be seen in public like that._ A little bit more and -

Lambert stared at the tiny soul patch left on his chin and the patchy moustache that had never really filled out in the first place, realising he now had to do the unthinkable. _Go smooth._ He held his breath as he lifted the straight razor to his chin. It took a mere flick of the wrist to remove the final vestiges of his facial hair; the moustache disappeared quickly after. He hadn’t been this babyfaced since before the Trials. They’d roast him. There’d be nothing left of his pride by the end of the winter.

He needed to hide this somehow. With a quick fumble around the room - opening bags, peering in cupboards - he managed to find an old, grey scarf. It was thick and scratchy, irritating his skin almost immediately, but it covered the entire lower part of his face when he wrapped it tightly enough. _Perfect._ If anyone asked, he was just cold. And would continue to be so for about four weeks. _This was going to work._

With his sword belts on his shoulder, Lambert headed down towards the courtyard. The others had headed inside by the time he stepped out into the cold, and he sucked in a shocked breath. The frigid winds cut through the aged wool and he could feel its icy talons raking over his skin, turning his cheeks rosy. 

“What took you so long?” Aiden appeared from the shadow of the castle wall and Lambert’s entire body went rigid, fingers flexing around the thick leather strap across his chest.

“Uh, just… you know, the razor was blunt, had to sharpen it, they couldn’t find the foam. Usual shit.” Voice muffled by the thick fabric over his mouth, Lambert mumbled through his explanation and then turned his back. Aiden’s bullshit detector went haywire and he cleared the distance in several bounding leaps. 

“Show me.” He reached for the tail end of his scarf, but Lambert batted at him. The scuffle that ensued mostly consisted of slapping palms and pinching fingers as Aiden tried to duck and weave around Lambert’s elbows. His victory was assured when he managed to unbuckle those sword belts with a deft flick of the wrist, and then mount his back. Knees digging into Lambert’s waist, he wiggled his fingers beneath the folds of wool and found… bare skin. “Lambert!” Aiden chirped with glee, then whipped the scarf away.

The cold rushed in and Lambert sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The surface of his skin prickled painfully, still raw from the shave, and more exposed than it had been in literal decades. He slapped his hands to his cheeks as Aiden dismounted, and tried to turn his face away. “You bastard,” he seethed.

“No, c’mon, c’mon, lemme see,” Aiden, with his full auburn beard and bouncy curls, pawed at Lambert’s arm until it dropped away. Lambert glared at the ground, unable to meet those green eyes brimming with barely contained mirth.

“Oh, _baby,_ ” Aiden purred. His hands stroked along Lambert’s jawline and forced his face up. The skin on his cheeks was already a bright, rosy red thanks to the brush of cold winter air. “You look…”

“…like a prepubescent student from Ban Ard, fuck off,” Lambert growled, trying to tug away, but Aiden held on with a firm grasp. 

“Mmm, not really what I was thinking,” Aiden leaned forward and placed the gentlest kiss upon silky smooth skin. The heat of his lips sent sparks flying to the back of Lambert’s neck and down the length of his spine. They didn’t stop. Those lips wandered ponderously over skin they’d never tasted, leaving behind traces of dampness that prickled in the cool air. 

Slender fingers traced his jawline, worn, callused tips tender in their exploration until they traced over his hairline. Aiden tugged, pulling Lambert closer, coaxing his head back to expose his freshly shaven throat, tickled by the coarse hair of Aiden’s own immaculately trimmed beard. Lambert’s eyes blew wide, a reedy little whine fell over parted lips; his entire body had gone limp as his Cat scooped him up, their hips slotting together to share their burgeoning– 

“Oh, eww,” said a young, petulant voice. Ciri, who’d escaped her reading now that Vesemir had finally fallen asleep, then proceeded to blow a raspberry. “Get a room.” 

Aiden chuckled and lifted his lips away from where he’d been tenderly lapping at Lambert’s quickening pulse. “C’mon,” he held his wolf until those booted feet had found purchase again. “Heaven forbid I permanently scar your niece by giving you a boner.”

Lambert growled. “She’s not my niece,” he glared at her pointedly. “We’re now estranged.”

“You say that at least three times a week,” she pouted, arms folded. “Finally got rid of that ratty beard, I see. Shame you couldn’t stick it on your hairline.”

“Oh my -,” Lambert swirled around to launch into a scathing tirade, but Aiden was too quick; he scooped him from the floor and slung him effortlessly over his shoulder. “Put me down. Put me - _Aiden,_ someone needs to teach her some ma - Aiden!”

“Catch you later, Ciri,” Aiden called back as he carried his squirming wolf into the keep. Those beautiful, rosy cheeks, already chapped by the cold, needed some proper attention; kisses, kitten licks and maybe some soothing balm to take the sting away.

* * *

**Day Fourteen: Walking in the Snow**

_**A/N:** Lambert has a brother. They meet for the first time over the graves of their parents. **Warnings:** mentions of past child abuse; mentions of past murder._

Lambert stood over his mothers grave with a bunch of flowers in his hand. It was something of a tradition he had. Before he headed out onto the Path properly, he rode south to his hometown, pissed on his father’s grave - one that Lambert had dug for him - and then spent some time just _thinking._ He missed her. Missed her more than anything else from his previous, only marginally shittier, life. This year he’d missed it thought. Various amounts of bullshit had piled on, which meant spring, then summer and finally autumn had come and gone.

War was like that. It separated families even when half of them were fucking dead. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured finally, “don’t have many flowers this year either. Not gonna’ make it up to Kaer Morhen this winter now, but couldn’t let you go a year without…” He trailed off. Without enduring his fucking pity party. Even if there was nothing but dust below the frozen soil now, she was probably looking down on him and shaking her head. It’d snowed the night before, and Lambert’s boots crunched through the thick layer as he stood.

_Crunch. Crunch. Clop._

He looked down at his feet and then over his shoulder. A man approached on foot, with his horse strolling behind him. The air around him stilled, while his chest froze midbreath. The man stared at him in return, yellow eyes wide, twin sword hilts jutting over his shoulder. For once, it wasn’t Lambert who got the first jab in. “Who the fuck are you?” The strange Witcher growled his gloved hands twitching around the reins of his horse.

“Could ask the same thing,” Lambert bit back, and then grabbed his medallion from his gambeson. It rattled against the metal clasps of his swordbelts as he let it drop. “Lambert, School of the Wolf.” But his tone didn’t hold quite the same bite as he intended; there was something uncannily familiar about the figure that stood before him.

“Ivo of Belhaven,” the Witcher returned. “School of the Bear.” The way he said the word ‘bear’. It was like he was holding something unsavoury on his tongue. Ivo’s gaze dropped to the two mounds of earth at Lambert’s feet. The heat of the tension building between them could’ve melted the very snow beneath their feet. 

“Bit small for a Bear,” Lambert smirked. “Thought Arnaghad was meant to be nine hands wide.” The legends about Arnaghad had been passed around the keep for as long as Lambert could remember; the leader of the School of the Bear was as physically imposing as his temper. But Ivo was no bigger than Lambert. Better suited to the School of the Cat, or the Viper, perhaps. Not that he’d dare say such a thing in front of a Bear.

“He is,” Ivo sighed. “I’m the black sheep of the family. Why’re you here, Wolf?” It sounded almost accusatory; Ivo’s eyes kept dropping to the graves at Lambert’s feet, but they always returned to Lambert’s face again. _Searching._

While Lambert would usually meet such invasive questioning with the whipcrack of sarcasm, he didn’t want to risk driving _this one_ away. Shit, it almost felt like he was looking in a mirror and, as Ivo kept glancing at the graves, his heart began to quicken. “Visiting family.”

Ivo sucked in a breath and took a step back like he’d been physically punched. “What are those graves to you?” 

“No, no,” Lambert took a step forward, closing the distance. “You first, asshole. You look like a wraith’s just popped up over my shoulder, and I know it hasn’t, so what -? What are they? Who - who the fuck are you?” Lambert’s hands clenched into fists, trembling. He could _feel_ his heart in his ears as his chest constricted.

“My parents,” Ivo’s voice cracked, just a fraction. “My mother lies on your right, my father on your left. I buried the first, but not the second.”

Lambert felt faint. In fact, he definitely swayed a little. The familiarity. They looked… _fuck_ , with a few minor differences, they looked almost identical. Ivo’s hairline was doing better than his, though. Must be the Bear mutagens. Lambert found his words again. “They’re mine too. My parents.”

“No,” Ivo shook his head viciously. “No. He - no.”

“Calling me a liar?” Lambert snarled, moving to stand between the Bear and his mother’s final resting place.

“Fucking prove it,” Ivo stepped forward now, squaring up until their chests almost touched. “Tell me something only a son would know.”

“He was an abusive asshole. Beat her every single day.”

“The whole village knew that. Try again,” Ivo bit out.

“During Yule, every year, she hung love charms on the trees asking the gods for happiness. That’s all. She still thought she was being greedy.”

Ivo faltered, Lambert continued. “She loved playing in the meadows, making flower crowns. She used to swim in the river with me like ladies weren’t supposed to, but she always said you shouldn’t only be what people want you to be, and -,” he hesitated, “she sewed or built all my toys, but I had to hide them because - .”

“- he’d burn them in his rages,” Ivo whispered. 

They stared into mirrored amber eyes.

Their breath clouded in the frozen air around their faces.

One of them moved first. Lambert wasn’t sure which. It might’ve even been him, but suddenly he had this stranger pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly over his gambeson and swords. His embrace was returned, and he felt the cold of Ivo’s nose against his neck as he sniffed at him. It only cemented the familiarity. They had the same undertones; the same mixture of summer heat and spice that matched their characters.

It was instinctual. Two men that believed their family - their _real_ family, not some military garrison made for mutating boys - had been lost to them forever. And yet, here stood a final trace of it. It was impossible. Too good to be true. Couldn’t be real.

When they pulled apart, their hands remained on the other; Ivo gripped Lambert’s biceps while Lambert curled his fingers around Ivo’s swordbelts. When Ivo spoke, his throat sounded like cracking ice. “I never knew. He got rid of me first chance he could. Dropped me off in an orphanage in Belhaven. I came back years later, and found her in the dining room, she’d - he’d finally - .”

“So you buried her,” Lambert murmured. Of course; their shithead of a paternal figure wouldn’t have given her even that level of decency and respect.

“I waited for him to return, but he was… gone. They weren’t sure when he was coming back, so I just - I left,” Ivo dropped his gaze.

“I killed him,” Lambert lifted a hand and grabbed Ivo by the jaw, wrenching his face up. “It wasn’t quick, or painless. It was everything he deserved.”

Ivo let out a breath as if he’d been holding it the whole time. His hardened eyes softened and he released Lambert’s bicep to tentatively touch his face. He traced the features so similar to his; the dark hair, the bearded jaw, the set brow, the nose. Lambert let him. _Fuck_ , how could he not? Look - it was a - he had a -

His mind just couldn’t grasp it.

“See you inherited his hairline,” Ivo said finally, lips twisting in a shit-eating grin. Lambert huffed and shoved him back. The Bear’s smile softened again. “Her everything else though. I can see her in your face. Still, remember her like it was yesterday.”

“She never told me, she -,” Lambert turned now to face their mother’s grave. She’d never mentioned an older son.

“Course not. The son she’d been told never to speak of. She was probably hoping that if she did everything ‘right’, he wouldn’t throw you away and try again,” Ivo sighed, dropped the reins of his horse, and stepped around Lambert. “I always come at this time. Heading back to hibernate. Like to let her know I’ve not gone to hell yet.”

“I usually come in spring, but… uh, shit happened,” Lambert murmured. 

Ivo crouched down and placed his hand gently over the mound of earth. He whispered something that not even Lambert could hear, before straightening up slowly. “You’ll never get back before the snow buries you.” He dropped his head, eyes moving as if he was running a decision over.

“I couldn’t not see her.”

“Winter with me,” Ivo said, looking up suddenly. “Look, we mostly keep to ourselves, the few remaining of our school. But it’ll be a roof, with food, loads of it. And we can - _talk_ , there’s so much I - .”

“Yeah,” Lambert blurted out. “Yeah, I - yeah, just let me, let me get my shit. It’s in the town a mile out.” Even if Ivo was lying, even if this was all some elaborate fucking ruse, it was _something._ A shred of hope. And hope was so hard to come by. Lambert snatched at it now with both hands.

“Lead the way,” Ivo gestured and cast one final glance towards the graves as they began to walk east.

Lambert had used the word ‘brother’ many times before. It meant ‘fellow soldier’, ‘fellow Witcher’, ‘you’re safe with me’, ‘we’re in this together’. It didn’t mean what it should: family. And the only blood he shared with Eskel and Geralt was what they spilt on the training grounds. As a result, he didn’t use it as much as the others, because he’d never really felt like he belonged. He was an outsider to the only vague unit of a family he would ever have. 

Until now.

As they walked in the snow, side-by-side, Lambert kept glancing up from the path to gaze at Ivo, drinking in his face - a face that looked so uncannily like his. There was so much he wanted to say. Wanted to ask. There’d probably be anger, and cursing, and he might even fucking cry - _shit,_ wouldn’t that be something? But that one word buzzed around his head on repeat. And it set his heart on _fire_ with joy, because it actually meant what it was supposed to mean.

_Brother._

Lambert wasn’t alone. Not anymore.


	3. Week Three: It's Colder Than An Ice Troll's Ass In Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Week_ _Three:_ **
> 
> (15) [Hot Drinks](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637684509173743618/day-fifteen-hot-drinks-an-vesemir-bans-lambert); (16) [Snowball Fight](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637769561544032256/day-sixteen-snowball-fight-an-lambert-eskel); (17)[ First Frost](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638036059831369728/day-seventeen-first-frost-an-lambert-has-always); (18) [Blanket Nest](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/637883574499016704/day-eighteen-blanket-nest-an-lamberts-never); (19) [Hibernation;](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638315354929692672/day-nineteen-hibernation-an-this-changed-a) (20) [Black Ice;](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638333916804169728/day-twenty-black-ice-an-voltehre-was-lamberts) (21) [Icicles ](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638398580288372736/day-twenty-one-icicles-an-bear-bear-run-you)
> 
> * * *

**Day Fifteen: Hot Drinks**

_**A/N:** Vesemir bans Lambert from drinking the mulled cider after he turns up drunk for training one day. Lambert spends five years building up to his big ‘Fuck You’ by learning to make his own alcohol, but the final stage doesn’t really go to plan._

Vesemir banned him from the mulled cider. Apparently turning up to training roaring drunk from an all-night bender wasn’t acceptable. That’s what kick-started the whole moonshine distilling and brewing thing. Because like ever-lovin’ _fuck_ was he going to let Vesemir stop him from doing something he wanted to do. The first year he learned what alcohol poisoning felt like. The second-year it went slightly better, and by the third he had his recipe rumbled. Even the others found it somewhat palatable once they were several kegs deep.

Flushed with triumph, Lambert decided to rub it in just a little more the following year. He was going to mull it. Yes. _Mulled moonshine._ It was all planned. He went as far south as Nazair to collect himself some Gemmerian sugar; it was eye-wateringly expensive. But it would be worth it to see the scowl on Vesemir’s face when he smelled the nutmeg, and the others turned to Lambert for their winter warmer. Because when Lambert wanted to be petty, he did it with a capital ‘P’. He picked up an entire bag of oranges in the markets of Barn Ard – because of course, the mages there would be able to portal some in, but not sugar, fuckers – and then rode home.

The first few days were for sleeping and Lambert snoozed on Eskel’s big chest, plotting the grand finale of his years’ long middle finger to Vesemir’s training regime in his dreams. The oranges lasted just long enough for him to squeeze the juice out of them, and then he set to work. Nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, sugar and squeezed orange juice. Just had to get the right mixture. Rather than taste test himself—he’d conclude that his taste buds had burned away over the years—he called in a trustworthy reinforcement.

Eskel swaggered down the stairs with his usual unhurried gait, and Lambert clicked his fingers. “Some time today, big guy. Fuck, I can feel my hairline moving back.”

“Mmm,” Eskel yawned into a closed a fist. Their resident bear tended to sleep the longest and emerge the latest in the first week. Once he’d recharged, he was the hardest working out of all of them; Vesemir included. Lambert had lectured him over the years about the moderation of effort to conserve energy and lifespan. Still, he’d just waved it away with that irritating, easy-going—all too fucking handsome—smile. “What’re you gonna’ poison me with?”

“It’s all moonshine,” Lambert gestured at tree glass flasks lined up on the table before him. “I’ve just adjusted the recipe on the spices a bit. Tell me which one you like the most.”

“Moonshine,” Eskel repeated, staring down at the beakers with a resigned sigh. “Lambert, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

When the only answer he received was a raised eyebrow and a pair of folded arms, Eskel picked up the first flask and toasted with it. “To my stomach lining.” He then made the mistake of gulping down a sizeable mouthful believing it wouldn’t be much different from Lambert’s usual fare. The off-coloured moonshine bubbled straight back out of Eskel’s mouth as he spluttered and wheezed.

“Hm,” Lambert squinted. “Okay.” He scribbled down some notes on the pad at his elbow. “Next one.”

Eskel stared at him, only to receive a jut of the chin and a dip of the eyes to remind him of his obligations. This time he didn’t toast but took a fortifying gasp of air before knocking back a more tentative mouthful. It was worse. This time Eskel spat it out in a fountain, that Lambert just about managed to sidestep, and then burped as if he were about to vomit.

“No better?”

“Worse,” Eskel rasped. “So much worse.”

“Okay, next one.”

“Lambert, I can’t—.”

“Do it for me.”

“No, please don’t make me, it’s horrific, it really—.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“You,” Eskel’s eyes narrowed, “—low, very low.”

Lambert’s eyes blew extra-wide, lower lip jutting. Oh, he knew how to tug on those big, over-sized heartstrings. “Well, I suppose if your love only extends as far as my ass, we can just leave it, I mean… I just asked you for this one little—.”

“I fucking hate you,” Eskel growled as he picked up the third and final flask.

“No, you don’t,” Lambert grinned, all teeth, and braced his hands on the edge of the desk. He stared intently, waiting for Eskel to take a drink. This was the one. He was certain this mixture would be perfect; it was a balance of the other two, no extremes, and—

Eskel took the smallest sip. Tentative. He flinched and turned his head away, sucking air through his teeth.

“More, c’mon, get a proper taste,” Lambert urged.

With a groan, Eskel gulped a mouthful and then coughed into his elbow, eyes watering. “Maybe good for… slaying necrophages or… a particularly stubborn… endrega.” 

Lambert threw his pencil down with a growl of frustration and scrubbed his hands over his head. “It must be reacting to some of the other chemicals, what are the alchemical properties of nutmeg anyway? Do we have that book? Maybe it’s the acid in the orange juice, or—.”

“Lambert,” Eskel croaked through an abused throat and circled the table to wrap him in a tight embrace. “Your moonshine’s fine as it is. If we want to drink something mulled, we can just drink from Vesemir’s bowl in the kitchen.”

“No,” Lambert bunched up, but he was being prevented from throwing up the proverbial spikes by the warm chest pressed to his back. “He fucking— _banned_ me, like some fucking initiate, I’m—this is a matter of _pride_ , Eskel. My _pride_ is at stake.”

“From drinking during training, you idiot,” Eskel chuckled. “And thank fuck, I didn’t wanna’ scrape your brains off the cobblestones or sew a limb back on ‘cause you accidentally cut it off. It’s not just you anyway; it’s all of us. Geralt was banned that year he brought his bard with him, and they drank all night singing Skelligen shanties, and I was banned about thirty years ago, uh… when I, um, I stabbed Vesemir through the foot after I tripped over a cobblestone.” He said the last part very quietly, but Lambert still guffawed, swung round and grabbed his jaw in both hands.

“You stabbed him in the foot?”

“Yes,” Eskel sighed, face falling in shame. “He nearly lost a toe.”

 _“He nearly lost a toe,_ ” Lambert repeated it with absolute, bloodthirsty glee and then leaned up to smooch those plump lips until they were smiling again. “Alright then, _fuck it._ Fuck this. Let’s go and get rat-arsed on the old man’s brew.”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Eskel repeated, but he could tell he was onto a loser here.

“Time is relative. Have you met Ciri?”

“And what about your pride?”

“Fuck pride, life’s too short, and the cider’s too good,” Lambert lurched out of Eskel’s arms but leaned back to grab his hand. “C’mon, big guy, I’ve got five years of cider-drinking to catch up on.”

Eskel groaned. He could feel the hangover coming on already. Or maybe that was just the moonshine?

* * *

**Day Sixteen: Snowball Fight**

_**A/N:** Lambert, Eskel and Aiden find themselves in a desperate situation, with enemies knocking on every door, penned in by the ferocity of–no, it’s a snowball fight._

“Fuck,” Lambert ducked as a missile ricocheted off the huge chunk of the fallen castle they were hiding behind. “It’s no use. They’ve got us pinned down.” He turned to Aiden, who looked just as beleaguered.

“I thought we’d outflanked them,” Aiden sighed, rubbing his eyes in despair as he looked at his remaining stock of ammunition. “I’m down to four. You?”

“Two, I wasted one, got greedy when we tried to take the steps,” Lambert shook his head. “They just fucking _obliterated_ Eskel. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“Poor guy; he was covering for me. I’ll always remember his sacrifice,” Aiden nodded gravely, his gaze wavering over the courtyard steps. “So, what’s the plan?”

“If we circle ‘round back, we might stand a chance of catching them off guard.” He flinched as another projectile glanced off the top of the stone above their heads. “Geralt’s leg’s giving him hassle, so he’ll be slow on the uptake.” 

“Nah, that little imp is just waiting for us, she’ll get off three before we even take two steps out of the keep’s shadow,” Aiden glanced towards the castle walls ponderously. Their target flapped errantly in the wind. The tattered cloth was full of holes thanks to a family of industrious moths that’d moved into the keep during the autumn. Still, Vesemir had redyed it to refresh its brilliant, fiery red hue. “One of us will have to make a sacrifice.”

Lambert looked at Aiden suddenly, one hand latching onto his forearm. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Victory’ll be hollow without you by my side,” Lambert gasped, eyes were blown wide. “Don’t do it. We can still make it.” 

Aiden stroked Lambert’s fingers. “I’ll always be by your side,” he leaned in to snatch a kiss, with tongue–because if you were going to have a dramatic final kiss, you needed to lick his tonsils, right?–and whispered his parting words. “Make it count, kitten.”

The Cat snatched up his remaining snowballs and charged out from their hiding place with a chirping battle cry. Agile and swift, he dodged around the first few balls of packed snow and ice hurtling in his direction, and Lambert used the distraction to make his play for the flag. He sprinted across the courtyard at full pelt, skidding on his heels to duck beneath several stray snowballs flung his direction, while Aiden fell to Geralt and Ciri’s vicious barrage.

The flag was within his reach. Just the set of stairs leading up to the chemin de ronde, and he’d have it within his grasp, and–

A portal opened up under his feet, and he fell through with a surprised yelp. He had enough time to see Ciri teleport ascend the stairs to snatch the flag, before the rift in time and space closed above him. The landing was soft at least; Yennefer had dumped him into a huge mound of snow that he now fought his way from, spluttering and cursing. “You two-bit, cheating witch,” he spat a wad of snow from his mouth as he finally scrambled to his feet. Yennefer waited for him, her hands planted on her hips. “Dishonour! Dishonour on you, dishonour on y–oi, old man, do your fuckin’ job. She cheated!”

Vesemir strolled towards them with Eskel at his elbow. The latter was still ringing out his hair from where he’d been thoroughly buried in snow by his niece. She’d teleported a small avalanche over his head. “I don’t know what you mean,” Vesemir shrugged, fighting back his smirk. “I saw you fall down the stairs, and then Ciri seized the flag.”

Lambert’s eyes narrowed first on Vesemir, then Yennefer, and finally Ciri as she bounced up with her prize. “Next time,” he brandished a finger at Geralt, who looked thoroughly perplexed. “Eskel’s gonna’ Aard you into next week.”

“What did I do?” 

Lambert pointed first at Ciri. “Spawn,” then at Yennefer. “Ball and chain.” His finger waggled at Geralt one last time before he turned to storm back into the keep, muttering about sportsmanship and a clear omission in the Aretuzan curriculum. 

Yen smirked. “He’s rather sensitive, isn’t he?”

Geralt grunted. “Like a nerve ending,” he ruffled his hand over Ciri’s hair. “That _was_ cheating.”

“No, it was _teaching_ ,” Yen placed an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “When what you want is within your grasp, you must use all means at your disposal to grasp it. But, I suppose I can make it up to him.”

Geralt nodded in agreement, and they headed inside for lunch. By the evening, Yen had opened a portal to Ban Ard and transported through several kegs of fine ale, an entire goose roast - Lambert’s favourite - and a new Gwent deck. Lambert eyed the offering dubiously, poking the food with a fork and hovering his medallion over it to make sure it was real (and not cursed), before sitting down to tuck in with gusto. Aiden, who just enjoyed watching Lambert _eat,_ because he often got so thin on the path, beamed at Yennefer with gratitude.

As he shuffled through his new set of cards later in the evening, his belly full of food and alcohol, Lambert cast Yennefer a sideways glance. “I suppose you’re okay,” he flicked a card through his fingers, “for a cheat.”

“Hmm,” she curled her finger around the rim of her grasp. “I think that was almost a compliment.”

Lambert grunted. “Yeah, well, and you were right,” he knocked back another mouthful of ale. “It’s a lesson she needed. One that Geralt probably didn’t want to teach.” He started to deal out the cards between himself and the witch.

“You heard?”

“What? You think the Grasses were just a formality?” He tapped the edge of his hand on the table. “He’s soft, and you’re not. She gets the best of both worlds.”

She scooped her cards up and gazed down at them with a raised eyebrow. “Appears I’ve been dealt a rather favourable hand.”

“Yeah, well, unlike some people I know, I like to play fair,” he said, eyebrows quirked. “And on an even keel, I’d flatten you.”

She smirked right back at him; a rather feral twist of her lips. “We’ll see, Witcher.”

As the two took it in turns to set up devastating plays, exchanging barely veiled insults, Eskel sidled up next to Geralt. “You know, I’m glad they don’t get together often,” he murmured and, when Geralt glanced at him with a questioning eyebrow raised, “the world wouldn’t stand a chance.”

* * *

**Day Seventeen: First Frost**

_**A/N:** Lambert has always associated the first frost with loneliness and abandonment. On the Path, it meant having to leave Aiden behind and return to Kaer Morhen; a place he hated more than anywhere in the world. After a few years at Corvo Bianco, his perceptions are beginning to change._

When Lambert retired from the Path and joined Geralt at Corvo Bianco, he’d expected a quiet life with a permanent glass of wine in his hand and the occasional knees up at one of the nearby estates. Not to replace his swords with a set of pruning clippers and a thick book on vine growing to memorise. Whereas Geralt was happy to let his majordomo organise most of the work, Lambert was the kind of man who needed to be i _n the know_. Some might use the label ‘control freak’, but he was never one for assigning himself to boxes.

The spring months started with trellis maintenance, staking and anchoring, and ploughing down, de-budding and suckering. Yeah. If someone had approached him about the act of ploughing down and suckering two years ago, he’d have either knocked them cleanout or offered to rent the room upstairs, depending on their level of personal hygiene. 

As spring faded into summer, the flowering happened, and the entirety of Corvo Bianco filled with the saccharine scent of those early blooms. With careful maintenance, the vines would then enter the next phase. The Toussaint natives called this ‘ _nouaison’;_ small flowers, now fertilised, begin to form baby grapes. The first time Lambert’s field had begun to bear fruit, he’d been unable to stop staring at those tiny, bulbous nubs as they emerged from the leafy vines. He, Lambert, had produced _life_. The vines hadn’t withered and died; he hadn’t broken or ruined the whole field. Actual, fully-fledged, fucking _life._

Next came _‘veraison_ ’; the ripening of the grapes and the second leaf thinning. The vines can never be left unattended, Barnabas-Basil had informed him in those summer months. They must be carefully cultivated to produce the very best fruit. Harvest and vinification happened at the onset of autumn, and Lambert spent many hours bouncing up and down in vats of ripened grapes at Geralt’s side, his calves stained a deep, reddish-purple. 

After a year of careful maintenance, of tender loving care, the moment his vines start to lose their vibrant green, Lambert feels a well of… something unpleasant gather in his gut. Alongside the workers, Lambert headed into the fields every year to identify the appropriate fruit-bearing cane - facing the right way, close to the trunk, within the fruit-bearing zone - for each vine and cut the surrounding ones away. They leave a precise number of eyelets from which the fruit will develop next year, but even the sight of those tiny spots of green doesn’t lessen the clench in Lambert’s chest.

They burn the discarded vines, and then the workers retire to their lodges for the winter. A week later, the very first frosts arrive. The estate glistens before Lambert’s eyes; an endless sea of sparkling white and stillness. Life has been frozen in time until the sun arrives again. It was as he looked out over the expanse of empty fields, in his fourth year working the vineyard at Geralt’s side, that Lambert realised why the pruning of the vines had made him feel so low.

On the Path, the end of autumn meant returning to Kaer Morhen; a place he hated more than any other in the world. It was a prison for his soul; a chamber filled with pain and suffering. Only Eskel and Geralt, the closest thing he really had to a family, made it bearable. But there was always the deep, unrelenting feeling of abandonment to contend with. Every year, as the leaves fell and the branches of trees turned into black claws against a grey sky, Lambert had to leave behind the one man that made him feel like his life was worth living. 

Back then, he’d never appreciated the beauty of the frost. It’d crunched under his boots or - if he’d been lucky enough that season - the hooves of his horse, and clouded the breath before his nose. The herald of his loneliness. _Cold and empty._

“Hey.” Aiden’s arms slid around Lambert’s waist, and Lambert could feel his nose pressed to the back of his neck. “What you thinkin’ about?”

“The past,” Lambert replied, one palm leaving the windowsill to fold over the top of Aiden’s forearm. He was pulled back gently until he was leaning against his husband’s chest, the silver bands around their fingers touching as Aiden cupped his hand. “Never used to like the frost.”

“Nah,” Aiden whispered. “It was always the start of the Great Sulk.”

Lambert grunted, but Aiden saw off the start of his grump with a gentle kiss on the delicate skin just beneath his ear. They stood like that for some time; Aiden cradling Lambert against him, two pairs of eyes - one set the colour of sunstone, the other of an enchanted forest - studied the frozen landscape. 

Things were different now. It didn’t need to be said; they both knew. The pruning, the first frost, meant a season wrapped in warm blankets and Aiden’s arms. Of long days lounging around, perhaps the odd ride through the surrounding countryside to stretch their legs. Lambert could begin to see winter as what it was always meant to be; a time of rest, recuperation; a time to catch up with loved ones and drink warm drinks by a roaring fire. It would just take time to break old habits ingrained by decades of carving out a miserable existence. 

But now, he didn’t have just to exist. He could live. Old wounds could heal over, and he never had to feel abandoned in the cold again. Because now Aiden was always at his side.

* * *

**Day Eighteen: Blanket Nest**

_**A/N:** Lambert’s never had a heat and has taken suppressants all his life. He’s never liked the idea of losing his agency to such a degree, and certainly not to some knothead alpha. However, now he has a steady and loving mate, he’s willing to give it a try. Problem is… he has no fucking idea how it all works. **Warnings:** A/B/O dynamics; hints of cosy smut; consent; mutual love and respect._

Lambert didn’t know what to expect for his first heat. Through the combined efforts of Aiden, Eskel and Geralt, he’d been convinced to try it this year. Since before he could even remember, he’d always taken suppressants. It was yet another thing - another sliver of agency - that fate was trying to take from him, and the moment he’d presented his secondary gender he practically snatched the chemicals out of Vesemir’s hands. 

He pretty much ignored Geralt’s rhythms and cycles - that was his business, nothing to do with Lambert - and the week that he disappeared with Eskel every winter wasn’t even a blip on Lambert’s radar. Hence, his one source of knowledge and experience remained untapped.

But now, as he rode up the Path at Aiden’s side - his mate, his alpha - Lambert quietly berated himself for not paying more fucking attention. Was there preparation he needed to do? Did he go blind or some shit? Like fuck he was asking Geralt or even Vesemir, and he’d acted like it was no big deal to Aiden. _Yeah, sure, he knew exactly what’d happen…_

_Fucking moron._

They stabled their horses upon arrival, and Lambert dragged Aiden down to the famous springs of Kaer Morhen. And as Aiden bent him over those aged flagstones, warmed with the thrum of the springs below it, and sank into him with a contented groan, Lambert’s fears abated. It’d be no different to normal. Just a week of non-stop sex with Aiden. _What more could he ask for?_

It started without him realising. He lost his temper with Eskel - _with Eskel_ \- because he was clumsy with some of the alchemy flasks, and then snapped at Vesemir during training when he happened to mention that Lambert’s guard was too low for someone with Geralt’s fighting style. He snipped at the old man all the time in every other facet of their relationship, but when there was a sword in his hand, he wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the advice of a trained eye. 

Then he was _hot._ Hot. _In Kaer Morhen. In the dead of fucking winter._ He sat further away from the fire than usual while they were playing cards and completely missed the knowing looks exchanged by his three companions (Vesemir had gone to bed by this point; there were only so many passive-aggressive one-liners he could endure in an evening). The sweat beaded on his skin, and his clothes felt itchy. After losing the fifth round in a row, Lambert threw his cards down and stomped off to bed. 

Aiden waited until even the sound of his footsteps had faded. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing, does he?”

Geralt shook his head. “Not a clue,” he sighed. “But if you offer him help directly, he’ll take it as if you’re calling him an idiot and he’ll bite your head off.”

“Then what? We let him tumble into a full heat completely unprepared because he’s a stubborn jackass?” Aiden raised an eyebrow.

“Hm, no,” Eskel folded his hand and grabbed his ale. “I think we can gently guide his instincts without him realising. He’ll start feeling anxious soon and want somewhere to be warm and comfortable. Then he’ll need a skin filled with hot water to help with the cramps.”

“You sure know your way around a heat cycle,” Aiden grinned over his own drink.

“Have you met Geralt? He’s a walking disaster for self-care,” Eskel fought his smirk right up until Geralt boxed him on the arm. “What d’you think? We’ll call it Operation Blanket, just in case he’s in earshot for any planning.”

“Eskel, you sly motherfucker, I love it.”

And so Operation Blanket began… with literal blankets. Omega in heat needed somewhere comfortable, scented with their loved ones. Geralt found the softest that Kaer Morhen had to offer and waited until he saw Lambert begin to itch and scratch at his skin; his clothes were becoming too uncomfortable. He made Eskel sleep on one, wrapping the other around himself for the night, and then left them by the laundry for Lambert to find the following morning.

From afar, Geralt watched Lambert pause by them on the way into the washbasin with an armful of his dirty shirts. He reached out to brush his palm over the fabric and then walked away with a grunt. Geralt’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he headed to the kitchen to report a failure. When Geralt got to this stage, he couldn’t turn down _anything_ soft. Just as he rounded the bend to the stairwell though, he saw Lambert emerge with the pile in his arms and disappear down the corridor towards his bedroom. He nuzzled into them the whole way down the hall.

_Success._

Next, an omega needed to have easy access to food that they didn’t have to compete or ask for should they be feeling anxious or vulnerable. Eskel roped Vesemir into ‘making extra’ when he brewed or cooked up a batch of something and asked him to come off as dismissive. “Here, Lambert, eat these, I’ll just stick ‘em in the larder otherwise.” Bread rolls, cured meats, fruit and ale all disappeared into Lambert’s room.

_Progress._

The final bit was the most difficult. When Lambert was in pain, he hid away. After he was released from the laboratories following the Grasses, it’d taken the instructors three days to find him again. Luckily, Aiden didn’t have to scour the depths of the keep to find his beloved this time; he was curled up on his bed with one of Aiden’s shirts hugged close to his chest. “Lambert?”

“What?” A bitter growl from the curled ball of quivering Witcher.

“Brought you something,” Aiden tilted his head back and scented the air. It was almost time for their first coupling. Lambert smelt divine. Like a meadow filled with blooms at the height of summer, but underneath was a hint of miserable fear. He didn’t feel right, and that probably frightened him more than anything. “I’m coming over, alright?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Lambert murmured, hugging the shirt closer; his mind hadn’t quite cottoned on to the idea that the real thing was walking over and would be infinitely better than a ratty old shirt. Aiden closed the door and carried over the animal skin filled with hot water. It was tied off at the top, but would still leak a little if not kept more or less upright. The room was pleasantly warm, with the fire well-fed, but Lambert was shivering.

“Put this on your belly,” Aiden knelt on the edge of the bed and offered the skin down. “It helps with the ache, you know… until you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Lambert whined dejectedly but took the waterskin anyway. He placed it carefully on the bed in front of him and then curled around it with a relieved gasp. “Oh, fuck, yeah…” 

Aiden reached over slowly, waiting for Lambert to protest, and then just as tentatively carded his fingers through Lambert’s short hair. To his relief, those pretty buttercup yellow eyes flickered with pleasure. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t want your dick if that’s what you’re offering,” Lambert grumped.

“No, that’s… I… that’s…” Aiden pursed his lips, took a deep breath and then regathered himself. “I’ve not had a mate in heat before, so I’m not really sure what I need to do.”

Lambert blinked, uncurling slightly from his constricting hold around the waterskin. “You… haven’t?”

“No, I’m sorry, I can get… Eskel, would you prefer - ?” The idea that he might not actually be ‘alpha’ enough to go through something this important with Lambert hadn’t occurred to Aiden until that moment, and now that it had he felt his heart crack down the middle. And suddenly he was silently begging any greater deity that was listening to convince Lambert that he didn’t want to send Aiden away…

“No, I don’t want fucking Eskel,” Lambert growled, irritable. “I want you, but it doesn’t feel… right, yet. Like something’s missing. And it feels like there are a thousand tiny rats inside my skin trying to eat their way out, and it’s just - Geralt never said anything.” 

“Huh,” Aiden glanced around the room. The fire was good; the food was neatly arranged on the writing desk; the room smelled nice - Aiden had been sure to bring some pleasant-smelling candles with him from Ban Ard because he’d heard omega were sensitive to bad smells during their heat cycle - so… oh. The blankets were heaped on the foot of the bed. A big, teetering stack of them. “Lambert, um, do you want to do anything with those?”

Lambert squinted in confusion. “Yes,” he said, with purpose, and then, “but… uh, it’s stupid. Like a kid would do, and I’m not… I don’t…”

“Tell me,” Aiden turned over onto his hands and knees, eager to help in whatever way he could to relieve Lambert’s discomfort. “C’mon, it’s me. You can tell me anything. Do you remember that time you got a weird patch on your - ?” 

“Alright, alright. Fuckin’ hell. Urf,” Lambert sat up with great effort. “I want to make a nest. Look, I know it sounds stupid, I’m not a bird or some shit, but it’s like I want a warm, comfy place with sides, and…”

“Hey, hey,” Aiden crawled forward and nudged Lambert’s jaw gently with his head. “I get it. Can I… can we do it together?” 

“I’m not sure how to start,” Lambert spoke so quietly that Aiden almost missed it; he prided himself on being in the know, a bottomless pit of knowledge and expertise. Something like this, though? It was personal—required introspection and patience with your own head. Lambert was out of his depth.

“Well, just take one,” Aiden grabbed the soft, red number from the top and placed it in Lambert’s hands, “do what feels natural.”

 _Do what feels natural._

Lambert allowed the fabric to fall through his fingers, before lifting the edge to his face. This one smelt of Eskel; a rich, deep musk that calmed his hammering heart. Fuck, he hadn’t even realised he was anxious. He found the blanket into a roll and placed it carefully around the edge of the mattress. A barrier to keep him safe on that side. He picked up another - Geralt - and placed it reverently on the other side. When he looked momentarily uncertain, fingertips touching together in his lap, Aiden slid closer and nuzzled a kiss into his neck. No patronising, no exaggerated praise, just a gentle offer of support. 

Lambert looked at him with wide, affectionate eyes, passing him a pillow and a blanket. _Get to work, alpha._ Together, they continued to build their nest; layers of blankets, pillows, warmth and scent. Aiden could tell the pain was abating and the anxiety fading as they worked; Lambert’s shoulders relaxed, his movements became more fluid, more at ease. When the nest was finished - a large, circle, with higher sides reinforced by pillows, and plenty of spare blankets loose in the middle - Lambert wiggled out of his trousers and shirt. Naked, he smoothed his bare skin over the softness of the fabric with a contented rumble. _Safe, warm._

Aiden moved the water bottle away so that it didn’t soak the bedsheets, and leaned down for a kiss. It was intended to be chaste - another reminder, another reassurance - but Lambert met him halfway. He tugged at his lower lip, nipped, licked and teased until his alpha kicked off his own clothes and their skin could touch. Gentle hands stroked down Lambert’s sides as his thighs bracketed Aiden’s waist. The scent of heat and lust was intoxicating, and Aiden moaned softly. “Oh, fuck, I love you so much, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance, I…”

Lambert flopped back, cupping Aiden’s jaw in both hands. “No,” he shook his head. “Not me leading you. Together. In everything. Yeah?” He wasn’t sure he was making sense; Aiden smelt, tasted, felt out of this world. Every shift of his body made Lambert’s ache with need. The pain was gone, replaced instead by a rapidly swelling desire for his alpha, for every sense to be consumed and overwhelmed by him.

“Yeah,” Aiden whispered into plush lips as he dropped for another kiss. He ran his fingers through Lambert’s hair, stroked his thighs, his chest, worshipped every inch of him until he was breathless, begging, and Aiden was desperate. And all he could think as he made love to his beautiful wolf were the last coherent words he spoke before dissolving into gasps and moans. 

_Together._ In everything. _Yeah._

* * *

**Day Nineteen: Hibernation**

_**A/N:** This changed a little bit from my original idea, but here we are! Ivo takes Lambert to winter with him at Haern Caduch. Whereas Lambert’s used to being kept… um, ‘busy’ during the winter months, the Bears prefer to hibernate. He quickly exhausts the two available sources of amusement, and the Bears decide he’d be better entertained by living god and legend, Arnaghad. **Warnings:** smut, lore and home truths._

It was Lambert’s first winter at Haern Caduch. He was there to meet Junod, Ivo’s partner and had been told to be on his best-fucking-behaviour. One look at the three available Bears - Gerd, Grayson and Arnaghad - and Lambert realised the second part would be far easier than the first and the third. His winters were characterised by training, chores and a shed load of physical intimacy that he’d lacked while out on the Path. The first night he crashed in the room next to Ivo and Junod, his pillow pulled over his head to try and drown out the noises of two lovers making up for the lost time.

Lambert quickly discovered how different the School of the Bear was to their northern counterparts. They didn’t spend a lot of time in each other’s company; they preferred solitary activities interspersed with a little bit of training, and maybe an hour or so of dice before heading off to their own quarters. On the third night, Gerd accepted Lambert’s flagrant offer of some company and took the wolf to bed with him. _It was a good night._ Lambert left the huge Bear, with his tail of golden-spun hair and beautifully thick body, completely exhausted.

His next stop was Grayson; older, of roughly similar proportions in every way, with lots of hair to grab onto and an impressive beard. The evening Lambert spent in his company was equally as enjoyable. The third and final option didn’t spend time with others. He was easily the oldest Witcher alive; his legends made Lambert slightly weak in the knees. Rebel. Kinslayer. A heart as cold as Mount Gorgon, the tallest in the Amell range. The mountain that had claimed the lives of many a young Bear witcher trying to complete the final trial. 

Arnaghad was an original. From the tenth century. He was older than even Vesemir and moved with the speed and inevitability of a glacier. For Lambert, Arnaghad should represent everything he hated, but he couldn’t help the morbid fascination; the feeling they shared something that he couldn’t quite name because Arnaghad had turned his back on the established way of things and cut his own path through the ashes of its destruction. He stole some agency back and then suffered as a consequence.

He was unreachable, though. As distant as his Death Mountain. It didn’t matter. Lambert flitted between Grayson and Gerd, feeling wholly satisfied. Until one evening he entered Haern Caduch’s equivalent of Kaer Morhen’s grand hall and found a conference being conducted in his absence. As he walked across the worn flagstones, chair legs scraped, benches creaked, and they all looked at him.

Ivo spoke first in his usual blunt manner. “You’re spending the night with Arnaghad.”

“What?” Lambert blinked. The legend himself sat nearest the fire, staring down into a tankard of something alcoholic; Lambert cast him a furtive glance but was apparently ignored.

Junod was smirking, Ivo just looked done, Gerd glanced at him, somewhat sheepish, so it was Grayson who chipped in next. “We’re exhausted,” he growled. “Winters are for sleeping; hibernating. That’s what we’re used to. You have too much energy for the two of us, and Ivo doesn’t share.”

“It’d be too fucking weird,” Ivo murmured, and side-eyed Junod, who he knew for a fact had been entertaining unsavoury fantasies whenever he glanced between Ivo and Lambert. _Filthy;_ the lot of them. Besides, Ivo was somewhat possessive over the single good thing he’d ever had in his life, and that included not… _sharing with his blood relatives._

“Oh, right, so this has just been decided?” Lambert folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. Maintaining an air of indignant outrage was difficult though when he was fighting the urge to side-eye Arnaghad. The mountain was sitting at the moment, so his sheer size wasn’t properly on display; he still took up most of a bench by himself, and his hands dwarfed the stein in their grip. Lambert had to bend his head back to look at his face usually. The others glanced between themselves; Gerd’s mouth opened and closed, Grayson rubbed tiredly at his eyes and Junod seemed to be thinking over a potential negotiation, when an avalanche suddenly rumbled through the hall. _Oh, no, it was just Arnaghad speaking._

“No one’s forcing you, pup,” the leader of the School of the Bear rose slowly from his seat. It was like watching a volcano emerge from the ground, and Lambert found himself wanting to take a step away; only his pride and warped arousal at the thought of sharing this behemoth’s bed stopped him in his tracks. “Follow. Or don’t.” Arnaghad left his drink and walked by with that same unhurried gait, yet Lambert still had to jog to catch up with him once he’d exchanged a glance with Ivo. His curiosity just got the better of him. Lambert’s sense of self-preservation was always somewhat muted in the face of his raging winter libido. 

They ascended several steep staircases, with Arnaghad taking two or three stairs at a time and Lambert scurrying along in his wake. They eventually entered a large, circular tower room that overlooked a sheer gulley below, with Mount Gogron looming in all its intimidating grandeur beyond. Lambert could imagine the great Bear watching from afar as his initiates scrambled up its craggy, ice-covered paths in search of the runestone that would prove their worth. Assessing, and just like the mountain, finding them wanting. The Wolf stood by the window now, gloved hands braced on the ledge, and gazed at the peak through the wintry mists.

“Why did you choose such a shitty last trial?” Lambert blurted out the question without even thinking. He turned as he heard the heavy thud of Arnaghad’s belts hitting the floor, followed by the rustle of the furs he wore wrapped around his shoulders. A flare of igni shot into the stacked hearth and the fire roared to life; it was almost as big as the bonfires of Beltane.

“So they understood,” Arnaghad murmured. His voice still filled the room though and burrowed somewhere deep in Lambert’s chest.

“Understood what?” Because Speartip was shitty, but the Wolves of Kaer Morhen were sent in together to face him. The survival part in Morhen Valley was the bit you did alone, but you were prepared, with swords, camping equipment. All you had to do was survive. Not fight, not race death to the top of a mountain. The only brother he’d had to leave behind was Voltehre. It was bullshit—all of it. But the School of the Bear had really _cultivated_ their brand of it.

“That they’re alone,” Arnaghad unhooked a knife from the back of his trousers, yet another difference Lambert noticed; the School of the Bear walked around armed even in their own home. “That nothing should stand in their way, and sometimes that means stepping over the corpses of those they once called brother.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re wrong. We’re… look, it’s a clusterfuck, but we’re meant to help people, help each other,” Lambert’s sneer belied the pounding of his heart, the sweat gathering at the small of his back, beneath his arms. He was still fully clothed, his hunting knife in his boot and his knuckle dusters inside his gambeson, but every part of his fight or flight instinct was screaming. The ‘help’ part was the one thing Lambert clung to. It gave his entire life purpose. His whole shitty existence meant something if he could keep just a handful of people safe from a monster, with teeth, claws or otherwise. “Witchers are lone hunters, but…”

“…even a lone hunter can use a helping hand sometimes,” Arnaghad finished the line for him and then chuckled. It was like a thousand pounds of tumbling rock. “Erland. He always did like his catchphrases. Tell me, pup, do you know where I got the scars on my face from?”

“Ivar Evil-Eye,” Lambert whispered; every Witcher knew the story. The splintering of the Order into its sects. It happened in the tenth century - ancient history - but here stood just a fraction of it. A walking relic. “When he betrayed you and made the Vipers. Your rebellion kinda’ bit you in the arse, didn’t it?” _Lambert’s survival instincts had clearly done a runner with his heart._

“Hm,” Arnaghad smiled, but it wasn’t really a smile. Not like one Lambert had ever seen. A fissure cracking through the side of a mountain after an earthquake. “Evil-eye. Strange how the victor warps stories. Ivar’s evil eye let him see the Winter Riders wherever they may be. He saw every time they entered this world to collect their slaves, but he was always a step behind them. It drove him mad. Wouldn’t listen to reason. He made the School of the Viper to stop the Wild Hunt. Yet, when the time came, the people he was trying to protect turned on him. They murdered Ivar and his hatchlings for wanting to help.”

“He was a nutter, an assassin, he -,” Lambert stuttered as Arnaghad pulled his shirt off to reveal the expanse of his chest. Marred with valleys of scars - huge claw marks that would’ve torn a normal man, even a Witcher, in half - and covered in a thick pelt of dark brown hair. Lambert knew he was wet in his braies. He could feel the damp cloth sliding against his skin as he stumbled away from the window to create a bit more space.

“Ivar worked for the greater good, and now he’s dead; Erland, who wanted the Continent to see Witchers as knights. Dead.” It was the first trace of emotion Lambert had heard in Arnaghad’s voice beyond detached resignation. There was a pause as the great Bear kicked his boots off, leaving just his unbelted trousers in place. He began moving closer - slow, measured - and Lambert still scrambled back from him. “Even your own School, betrayed by the Cats who, in turn, were betrayed by their employers.” Arnaghad was in no hurry; he herded Lambert into a corner that he couldn’t escape. “Tell me, pup, does your Vesemir weep at the graves of his brethren? Does he resign himself to stomp the dark halls of Kaer Morhen, listening to the ghosts of his fallen sons? Where’s his anger? Where’s his thirst for revenge? When the fanatics came for Haern Caduch, they murdered everyone, and then my rage buried them in that gulch, under generations of dead initiates and the stones of Gogron.”

Lambert’s back pressed to the wall as Arnaghad spoke, one of those huge forearms braced against the cold stone above his head, and through instinct alone he withdrew the hunting knife, pressing it against the swell of Arnaghad’s chest. A tiny prick of blood dribbled down the length of the blade. Lambert’s breath stayed locked in his chest as he stared up into ancient eyes that burned with the rage of the sun. _He was a dead man._

Arnaghad huffed and took Lambert’s wrist. He pinned it to the wall with ease and inspected the knife in his fingers. “Silver for monsters,” he growled. 

“You are a monster,” Lambert replied, only a thin ring of gold visible around the dark expanse of his pupils. He’d never felt so overwhelmed - so thoroughly outmatched - in his entire life. There was no point in fighting. Arnaghad would crush him effortlessly and throw his body out the window without a second thought. There was no agency to be found, no battle to be waged. His heart thundered, his arousal building until it was a thick musk between them, edging the odour of his fear. He was horny, not fucking stupid. _Why was he always attracted to the dangerous ones?_

“Maybe,” Arnaghad leaned forward. His lips hovered near Lambert’s ear; the heat of his breath sending goosebumps across quivering flesh. “But I’m still standing. I’m still here when the others are ash. Monsters survive, pup. They live until they’re old and grey. Good men die young.” He tilted his head, and Lambert’s eyes fluttered as he listened to Arnaghad breathe him in. That huge chest expanded until it pressed into the material of his gambeson. “I’m many things; monstrous, perhaps,” Arnaghad rumbled, and the grip on Lambert’s wrist fell away, “but I’m not a rapist. Go find your brother.”

The moment Arnaghad started to turn away, Lambert moved. The knife went from the wall to Arnaghad’s throat in the blink of an eye. Lambert was under no illusion; a Witcher that could bring down a mountain on the heads of an army would be able to flick him off like a gnat. Maybe he _was_ fucking stupid, but his gamble paid off. Arnaghad raised an eyebrow and took a step back as Lambert pushed forward. “Don’t think so,” the wolf growled back. “Not one to be frightened off by a bully. No matter how loud they growl, or how hard they hit.” 

“A bully,” Arnaghad had the faintest hint of a smile now; he continued to move slowly backwards under the pressure of the knife at his throat. Lambert pulled his glove off with his teeth and worked swiftly through the ties of his gambeson. It fell from his shoulders with a swift swap of the knife in his hands from right to left. There was something entirely too heady about having a living god at the tip of your blade. E _ven better if it was the tip of his cock._

“And you’re so full of crap, I swear to fucking Melitele,” Lambert smirked, tugging open the ties of his shirt and removing it with the same swift sleight of hand. “Mister Lone Bear in his Castle of Ice. I need no one, but my sorrow brought down an entire fucking mountain on the heads of those that slaughtered my only family. Mister I Don’t Need Anyone, who sends boys up a mountain that freezes the blood in their veins in hopes that they might understand what it feels like to be truly fucking alone because it hurts him so much,” the back’s of Arnaghad’s knees hit the edge of his bed; Lambert’s left hand formed aard and slammed into that giant chest, sending Arnaghad over onto his back. Still no resistance. Boots and trousers still in place, Lambert climbed up onto the mattress and sank over Arnaghad’s hips; it was hard to miss the huge erection pressing up through the Bear’s trousers. No one spoke to him like this; no one had ever dared. “Mr Monstrous, whose voice catches when he mentions the name of the lover he struck down.” 

Lambert’s eyes ran down the length of his conquest, from the braids in his brown hair, the jagged scars through the centre of his face, over that barrelled chest, to the waistband of his trousers and the thatch of dark hair that hinted just above it. “Fuck, Kaer Morhen’s nearly a thousand miles away, but I feel like I’m talking to Geralt of Rivia. You’re just another whiny little bitch.” 

Arnaghad’s eyebrows shot up, and in one agile roll, he had Lambert on his back, and the knife knocked from his hand. For one wild, heart-stopping moment, Lambert thought he’d pushed too far. He was going to get crushed to death and thrown into the gulch with the bones of the fanatics: _here lieth Lambert of Kaer Morhen, the fuckwit who was sadly crushed to death when he called one of the First Witchers a ‘whiny little bitch’._ But when he looked up into amber eyes expecting fire and brimstone, the only darkness to be found was the deep lustre of desire. “A whiny little bitch,” Arnaghad rumbled, mulling the words over in his own mouth. “Can’t have you taking that story back, can we?”

“S’the only one I have at the moment,” Lambert bit out, thighs spread wide to accommodate Arnaghad’s bulk between them. “Gonna’ try to change it?” 

“Hmm,” Arnaghad leaned forward and licked up the length of Lambert’s throat, tasting the lust in his sweat.

The rest of the evening blurred. They kicked off their trousers, and Lambert whined when Arnaghad’s truly gargantuan dick fell free. Was it too late to do some stretches? It took patience and a whole lot of fucking oil, but the moment it sank into him, he felt like he’d transcended. It bulged out of his stomach with every deep thrust and Arnaghad could pin him with just one hand, grinding into him slowly, but relentlessly. His stamina lasted for hours, wringing orgasms from Lambert that made him cry and shake. 

Eskel was going to be so fucking jealous. Eskel and the Succubus; Lambert and the Living Legend with a cock the size of a tree trunk. The others had been good for a couple of rounds and then flopped beneath their furs; Arnaghad apparently had a lot to catch up on, because it was Lambert who whimpered a plea for mercy when the great Bear took his hips yet again in the early hours of the morning.

“They said you were insatiable,” Arnaghad whispered into his neck, his newly acquired lover rested his head on one of his biceps. The Bear touched him tenderly, stroking along his chest and side. Wolves were lean in comparison; sinewy and athletic for all their pretty pirouettes and jumps, and yet, this feral little beast had hissed and spat at him anyway. Someone that looked on him for exactly what he was, but decided to stay anyway. 

“Insatiable, not immortal, if you fuck me again today, I’m going to die,” Lambert sighed, his throat husky and sore from its valiant efforts early that evening. “Don’t you hibernate?”

“I haven’t slept properly in many years,” Arnaghad rested his head down on the pillow. “Sleep, Wolf. We’ll eat in a few hours.”

Lambert didn’t need to ask. Arnaghad, just like Vesemir, laid awake listening to the voices of ghosts in the wind. For Vesemir they were a constant whisper, but for Arnaghad, with centuries of blood on his hands, they were probably louder than shrieking banshees. Lambert was too tired - too fucking sore - to ruminate on it much and fall asleep easily.

He didn’t really leave Arnaghad’s side much that winter.

* * *

**Day Twenty: Black Ice**

_**A/N:** Voltehre’s Lambert’s first friend. Ever. They do everything together; train, chores, sleep in the same bunk when it’s cold. Lambert takes Voltehre out to the lake in the dead of night to laugh the ice. It nearly goes terribly wrong._

_As an aside, the artwork on the left is from the ‘Witcher Initiate’ Gwent card. It’s information simply reads ‘doomed’. For Voltehre, for his canon fate, that hits home hard._

“Lambert!” Voltehre called in that hushed shout people used when calling over a huge distance but worried about getting caught. “If they catch us, we’ll get the belt.” **  
**

“They won’t catch us if you stop hollerin’ like that,” Lambert hissed back as he dropped down the outside walls of Kaer Morhen. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

The lake was out of bounds for ‘their own safety’. The instructors escorted them down to practice fighting drowners, to collect herbs and track wyvern around their watering hole, but otherwise, they were told to stay close to the castle walls. _They weren’t ready to face the monsters of Morhen Valley alone._

The night was almost completely silent but for the wind's usual roaring through the distant mountains and the occasional howl. Lambert missed ice skating. He used to do it all the time with his mother during the winter; they’d run out to the nearby lake and slide across the frozen water. It was always thick—unbreakable—and it was so much fun to compete on distance and speed. Voltehre had never been ice skating. He’d been at Kaer Morhen since he was two. It was easy to convince him to come along. 

They reached the edge of the lake and Lambert planted his hands on his hips, gazing out across the huge expanse of black ice. An eternal abyss; a perfect reflection of the bleak night’s sky, the smattering of snow in the darkness like the stars. Voltehre caught up, his breath puffing out in huge clouds before his face. “Now what? We’re here.” 

“Now, we skate,” Lambert said, grabbing Voltehre’s hand. They staggered out onto the ice together; Voltehre chuckled as Lambert floundered briefly when they hit a particularly slippery patch. “Ha, see. Told ya’. Wanna see who can slide the furthest?”

“I’m the lightest; it’ll be me.”

“Bring it,” Lambert smirked and took a run-up. Well, he tried to; the majority of his momentum was swallowed by unsteady feet as they flew out in several directions. The empty night was filled with their yips and shouts of delight as they took it in turns to slide out towards the centre. They didn’t wander far from the bank, where the ice was thickest and ended up moving about half a mile around the edge of the lake.

They were so absorbed in their games—Lambert baiting his friend to run faster; Voltehre teasing in return—that they didn’t see the mists coalescing between them and the edge of the lake. An ugly, leering face appeared from the cloud and inspected their prey. Then they morphed—changed their shapes, their voices, used their memories of the past to create something the children would be drawn to—and called, “Hey! Initiate! Get over here before you drown,” the voice barked. Lambert froze and looked up from where he’d slid several metres on his knees. There was a figure in Wolf School armour. Jet black hair, three diagonal slashes through his face.

“Shit,” he hissed and grabbed Voltehre’s arm. “Fuck, I didn’t think they’d actually come down.”

Voltehre’s brow knitted together. “Lambert, that’s… Derrin,” he murmured. “He died on the Path two years ago. He…” The realisation dawned slowly, and Voltehre’s eyes widened. “Shit, Lambert. Foglets. Run, we need to run!” The two young trainees scrambled to their feet, boots slipping on the ice, and turned inwards to the centre of the lake. The fog had cut them off. It was encircling at the edges—a giant snare.

Lambert could hear the click of claws and the feral snarl as the foglets abandoned their trap and gave chase. They moved with the speed of their spreading mist, and Lambert could see them enclosing around them. This was his fault. Voltehre was going to die because of his own stupid fucking desire to—what? Prove he was still his old self, to have something of his old life? 

The ice was cracking. He could hear it. As they got further into the centre, the ice became thinner—the water deeper—it started as a deep rumble, then a crack like snapping bone. He snatched Voltehre by the wrist and threw him forward with all his strength. Away from the mist. Away from the hole in the ice that swallowed Lambert seconds later.

The cold pierced through him like steel blades. It snatched the air from his lungs and made every limb seize. The water closed in over his head, threatening to fill his chest if he dared inhale. Paralysed, he watched the world above recede. The silence pressed in around him. He couldn’t even scream. Couldn’t cry for help. His body wasn’t responding. The shock had stolen his ability to fight for his life.

Vaguely, he wondered whether the drowners hid beneath the ice in the winter. Would they eat his frozen corpse? Would he feel their teeth sink through his flesh? The village wise woman had said that drowners were the souls of those that hadn’t respected the water. The Witchers had destroyed that notion in the first week, but Lambert could still imagine it. The water locked in its prey. His soul would watch as he was devoured and then haunt the lake like Derrin’s. 

His chest was beginning to burn. He’d have to breathe in soon and then it’d be all over. 

_A flash of light._

_The dull, muted sound of shouting voices through the darkness._

And then a hand descended into the water and grabbed him by the tunic. He hadn’t sunk that far. His shirt had inflated enough to save him. The hand wrenched him into the world, and he gasped in a huge lungful of air. His skin prickled—the air warmer than the freezing water pouring from his clothing—and he watched as the Witchers dispatched the foglets with brutal efficiency.

 _Witchers. Five of them._

As Lambert was placed upon his feet, a thick cloak thrown around his shoulders, he saw Voltehre nearby, his head bowed. Barmin was the Witcher that had pulled him from an untimely death, and he turned his back now, silver sword in hand, to defend them should any of the foglets draw near. Against two instructors and two Witchers of the Path, the beasts didn’t stand a chance.

The fog dissipated. A second instructor, Varin, stormed over. “What were you thinking?” He bellowed, his voice echoing in the sudden stillness of the night. “The lake is off-limits for a reason. You stupid fucking idiots. Well?”

Voltehre opened his mouth to answer, his shoulders hunched, but Lambert found his voice first. “It was me,” he said quickly. “I… didn’t give a shit about your fucking rules. We wanted to ice skate, and…” He grunted as Varin grabbed him by the front of his tunic and hauled him forward. Their faces were so close that Lambert could feel the heat of the instructor’s breath on his face.

“You may hate us, boy. You may rail against everything we want to teach you, bitch and moan all you want, but if you ever put another boy or Witcher in danger again, I will gut you myself and feed you to these foglets,” Varin snarled, and then shoved Lambert away from him. Flanked by Witchers on either side, they returned to the safety of the keep. Lambert knew he was going to be alright when he started shivering…

From that moment on, he resolved to do better. He’d nearly got Voltehre killed because he wanted to rebel. Because he was an asshole. Friends before self, always. The foglets recorded their misdeeds though. They took a snapshot of their laughter, their mirth; Voltehre’s chuckle, his yelps of glee as he slid the furthest and Lambert tugged him back. 

_You asshole, I was further this time… c’mon, let’s go again._

A few years later, Lambert would lose Voltehre to Old Speartip during the Trial of the Medallion. The foglets saw that too. They recorded his screams of terror and anguish in their mist; his last words imprinted there for an eternity. 

_He’s awake. Run, Lambert!_

When he got older, when the years of the Path carved lines into his face and took his fucking hairline too, Lambert would fish in the middle of that abyssal lake in a boat full of holes. He’d hurl bombs into it and watch the black, lifeless water erupt in a fountain beside him; then he’d listen to Voltehre’s voice in the distance as the foglets tried to lure him to shore. 

_Run, Lambert! Lambert! Run, run, he’s awake. You asshole, c’mon. Lambert!_

He couldn’t bring himself to kill them. It was all he had left of his first friend. The first person to love him for who he was, to be his friend without strings. The first of many he’d lose through the years.

* * *

**Day Twenty-One: Icicles**

**_A/N:_ ** _“Bear! Bear! Run, you stupid piece of shit.” Geralt and Lambert brave a bear cave to find themselves some blood moss._

“It’s sleeping in there,” Lambert hissed at Geralt as he crouched inside the small copse of evergreens. “The blood moss is right at the back of the cave.”

“And we can’t just kill it?” Geralt asked, his mind flashing back to an unsettling memory of a goat, a bull and a bear in a cave. Some contracts were better suppressed in the back of the mind and forgotten.

“No, it guards the cave against wyvern,” Lambert paused. “Vesemir’s named her Genevieve. Closest the old man’s got to a female in about a hundred years; I’d wager.

Geralt’s mouth opened and closed silently as he decided what part of that explanation needed to be addressed most urgently. He went with the implausibility of a bear fighting off a draconid. “A bear guards against wyvern?”

“She’s got an attitude problem. More trouble than the blood moss’ worth,” Lambert explained, clearly growing impatient with Geralt’s ignorance. “Without her, the wyvern would squirm their way in and eat the moss off the stone instead of scouting further afield for it. It’s the only place we can get it up here.”

“Grows everywhere else on the Continent just fine,” Geralt grumbled. This was a stealth mission, and he _hated_ those. It’d just be like when they were initiates playing a game of Sleeping Wyverns, except it wasn’t simply Barmin snoozing in his armchair that they had to worry about. This Sleeping Wyvern had four inches of claws and a maw full of razor-sharp teeth. “Let’s get this over with.”

“One more thing,” Lambert whispered as they crept out from the trees. “It’s full of icicles. One loud noise and you’re getting skewered, and not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way to get skewered?” Geralt asked incredulously; his only response to yet another hurdle they had to overcome for this gods-damned blood moss.

“Eskel,” Lambert said as he strolled by. No other explanation was necessary. 

The cave was… well, _cavernous_. The ceiling loomed high, shrouded in darkness, but the glistening daggers of ice that clung to it occasionally caught a glimmer of light, reminding the unwitting invaders of their fate should they put a foot wrong. Geralt slipped through the gawking mouth and immediately pressed his back to the wall. The craggy stone caught on the back of his armour, and he flinched at the audible scrape as he moved slowly inwards. Lambert glared at him and made a series of rude gestures with his fingers until Geralt pulled away from the wall.

The bear rested in the very middle of the dome. The hollow wasn’t necessarily that deep and Geralt could see the smattering of blood moss on the back wall. They tiptoed around the slumbering creature on either side, freezing in place when she let out a particularly loud snore, and the ice above her head rattled ominously. Geralt found himself wondering how she ould sleep on such a knife-edge; one avalanche, or an earthquake, or two clumsy idiots falling over a stone, and it’d all be over for her.

His attention lifted from the bear as he caught the flare of Lambert’s eye-shine at the back of the cave. Finely tuned hearing picked up the gentle scrape of gloved fingers over craggy rock, and Geralt moved swiftly to help Lambert with his harvest. It didn’t take long to fill the bags strapped to their belts, and Lambert gestured silently towards the mouth of the cave. Geralt turned, ready to retrace his steps, and then his foot caught a stone…

It went skittering across the uneven cave floor and collided with Genevieve’s sizable haunch. She grumbled and started to lift her shaggy head. Lambert’s eyes widened, and he immediately scrambled for the exit; the scars on her back had been earned fighting far bigger threats than two hapless Witchers. “Shit,” Geralt breathed and hot-footed it around the edge of the cave. But it was too late. She uncurled to her feet and turned two sleepy, bloodshot eyes on him. With a roar of outrage, she rose on her hind legs.

The ice above their heads tinkled in forewarning, and then one shard the size of a polearm fell, shattering a metre barely to Geralt’s left. He threw himself across the floor in an untidy roll as Genevieve took a swipe, ducking beneath her outstretched arm. More icicles cracked and fell in his wake as he scrambled for the exit, following Lambert’s voice as he called him out. 

Still uncoordinated and groggy, the bear galloped after Geralt as he fell out into the open once more. Lambert forced her back with an aard to earn them some time, and Geralt sprinted for the treeline. There was no need. As Genevieve cartwheeled back into the cave, there was a roar of anguish, the sound of ripping hide, more shattering ice, then silence. Geralt pushed himself slowly to his feet with a quiet groan - damned leg - and gathered his herb bag up from where it’d fallen free of his belt.

“Is she - ?”

“Dead,” Lambert growled. “You fuckin’ - I can’t believe you murdered Genevieve. How could you?”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped as he stood at Lambert’s side and peered into the cave. It wasn’t a pleasant scene. “I’m -,” he started, but any indignation he felt at having narrowly escaped a skewering to retrieve some gods-damned blood moss faded, “- sorry.”

Lambert inspected Geralt from the corner of his eye - he noted the hunched shoulders, the furrowed brow, the deep frown - and slapped a hand on his back. Geralt didn’t like taking life. Well, no one did if they were right in the head, but for Geralt, it hit him a bit differently than most others who wielded a sword. “Not your fault. Shit happens. She was old, anyway. This would’ve probably been her last winter. I’ll come back later for her skin. Don’t have the right knife on me.”

“What’re we going to tell Vesemir?”

“Fuck all, he doesn’t even know she exists,” Lambert turned his back and strolled off.

“But you said - .”

“I say a lot of shit, Geralt. Keep up.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and followed Lambert back to the keep for a hot drink.


	4. Week Four: Merry Fucking Solstice, I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Week Four:_** (22) [Sleeping In](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638679643137998848/day-twenty-two-sleeping-in-an-while-the-rest-of); (23) [Chapped Lips](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638753244949151744/day-twenty-three-chapped-lips-an-witchers-live); (24) [Mittens](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638757143333519361/day-twenty-four-mittens-day-twenty-five-fuck) & (25) [Fuck Winter](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/638757143333519361/day-twenty-four-mittens-day-twenty-five-fuck); (26) Never Seen Snow Before; (27) Ice-skating; (28) Ice Sculptures; (29) Abominable Snowman; (30) Bundled Up 
> 
> I ran out of steam due to finding the Christmas period extremely hard. If I ever complete the remaining prompts, I'll add them to this collection. "Day Thirty-One: Quiet" has its own story [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453989)

**Day Twenty-Three: Chapped Lips**

_**A/N:** Witchers live a life that hurts them, but winter’s meant to be a time of relief from that burden; it’s just a damned shame the cold tends to chap lips and roughen skin. Lambert applies his considerable intellect to the problem and makes Eskel melt. **Warnings:** none, very soft._

**  
**_Witchers are used to discomfort._

Every day their muscles and bones ache, their skin feels taut and dry, the labour of their minds under the memories of what they’ve experienced and the traumas inflicted on them by those they’re charged with helping. They sleep on the cold earth, surrounded by the dangerous and the hostile, unable to rest completely because of the incessant _awareness_. The food they eat they catch themselves, usually it’s unseasoned, sometimes it’s raw. When they stop by villages and townships, the broth thrown before them smells of piss and hatred. **  
**

Witchers are used to discomfort, but that doesn’t mean they don’t relish the few weeks when they can leave it behind.

Winter’s meant to be different. Once they crawl their way up the Killer using the final dregs of their energy, they curl up in warm furs, gorge themselves on freshly cooked food and enjoy the company of others that will look upon, touch them, with tenderness. It takes time and patience for the marks of the Path to fade though; the hardship leaves lasting damage on the surface. Early in their relationship, Lambert realises the roughness of his skin hurts Eskel’s scars.

His kisses are always gentle–reverent, almost–but the weather has chapped his lips, decoctions and hard work have weathered his hands, and they’re too callused to touch Eskel in the way he deserves. The big oaf never complains; he sucks in a quiet breath of discomfort if a kiss snags on a ridge, but that’s it. He just _endures_ it without comment. Like everything else in his life.

_What they had was meant to be different._

Lambert works all winter to solve the problem. He’s a genius. A mastermind with chemicals. This is a project he should’ve tackled years ago. He creates decoctions and tinctures, syrups and salves, until finally, as the snow begins to melt and the Path calls them back, he has the recipe perfected. The very next winter he arrives home before Eskel - the bloke’s like clockwork, his routine never varies - and smothers his skin in the thick, white salve he’s made. He pays extra attention to his lips and keeps applying it until they’re soft, all the hard skin fell away, leaving only rosy pink. 

A few days later, Eskel rides through the gates. They eat, drink, share stories and carouse until Eskel’s shoulders sag and he yawns. His bedroom is always prepared for his arrival; the furs fresh, the linens laundered, the fire stacked high and his favourite novel - Ballad of Torgeir the Red - on his nightstand. Lambert’s doing, of course.

Lambert unbuckles and unstraps, easing Eskel out of his clothing, and then buries his face in the soft hair of his chest. The first breath filled with his lover’s scent always burrows deep into his chest. It anchors there for the whole winter, topped up when they’re curled in bed together, allowed to enjoy intimacy and softness in private. He nudges Eskel onto the bed and climbs over him once they’re both bare, then realises he’s holding his breath. 

The first human trial that held any meaning.

He’d tried it on his own skin, snogging his fist like a prepubescent initiate practising in the dormitories, but it didn’t really have the same weight. Lambert smooths a hand through Eskel’s hair and tilts his head gently to the left. There’s that carefully moderated suck of breath - it’s so much part of their life that he accepts it readily, just the tiny modicum of tenderness that he desires - but Lambert knows, or hopes, that it won’t ever happen again.

His lips press gently at the tenderest part just beneath his eye. Here, the skin is thinner, the wound jagged. The gasp that brushes past his ear this time is awed. Eskel’s hands lift from the bed to knead at Lambert’s waist, and so he continues; a kiss on the cheek, over the jaw, his chin. Worshipping the part of Eskel that hurts him the most. Physically, mentally. “Little wolf…” He breathes, mystified.

“Easy, big guy,” Lambert whispers, pressing one final kiss to that famous lip notch. “Just close your eyes. I’ve got you tonight.”

Eskel shakes apart beneath the softness of Lambert’s hands and lips; he melts into the furs in a way he never has because there’s no spear of hurt through his warm haze. No rough skin or chapped lips catch on the parts of him that are sore and aching from a difficult year. Lambert asks for nothing back; his Eskel, his fearsome dragon, with his scars and golden heart, floats in his arms and that’s all he needs.

* * *

**Day Twenty-Two: Sleeping In**

_**A/N:** While the rest of Kaer Morhen gets a lie-in, Lambert has to ‘exercise’ his energetic cat witcher boyfriend. During a lull, he discovers that Aiden has never experienced the age-old question asked by every witcher-serving sex worker since the dawn of time: where does this scar come from? **Warnings:** smut._

“Aiden!” Lambert gasped, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the forearm slanted across his sweat-soaked chest. His thighs spread wide over Aiden’s lap, one strong hand leaving bruises on the inside of his thigh as it held him still. The hot puff of Aiden’s breath spread out between his shoulder blades, occasionally punctuated by the press of a searing hot kiss against his already flushed skin. “Oh, fuck, oh - _fuck_.”

It was early morning, the weak morning sunlight sliced through the sporadic gaps in the moth-eaten curtains, and Lambert caught occasional flashes of the snow-covered peaks as he was readjusted like a glorified cock sleeve. The others said that winters were for sleeping in; they’d still be snoozing long after the sun had crested the highest conifers, but Lambert didn’t get to do much sleeping these days. This was how every morning started when Aiden wintered at Kaer Morhen, and he wasn’t fucking complaining. Just - sometimes - it was a bit overwhelming.

In the winter, Aiden always woke up hungry. For food, for a drink, for touch and sensation. He was a creature of raw need; inexplicable, insatiable for the first hour or so every day. Like a starving man being presented with a banquet, who was fearful it would be snatched away from him before he could partake. All Lambert could do was cling on for dear life and hope his eyes didn’t roll out of his fucking head with how good it felt. 

They hadn’t even left the bed to build a fire yet, and Aiden had kicked the furs away so that nothing came between him and his prize. On his knees, with Lambert perched over him just as he liked, he could drive into his lover relentlessly and bury his face against his sweat-soaked hairline, rich with his natural scent.

The telltale flutter around his prick as Lambert drew close guided his angle; every muscle curling, spine arching, a body reluctant to surrender to the building pressure at its core. After a few more deep, precise thrusts, Aiden felt the ripple of tension uncurl through the length of Lambert’s body and held him tight as his back bowed, his release heralded with a strangled shout. Aiden rocked into him slowly, nursing him through it with gentle kisses and the lazy drag of his cock. The salty tang of his spend hung on the air - a sharpness above the softer musk of their sweat - and Aiden lowered him slowly to the bed. “Wait, you’re not done,” Lambert panted.

“I don’t always have to be done,” Aiden replied, his cock still hard, red and glistening as he stretched out at Lambert’s side. “Perhaps I just want to bask in your afterglow.”

“Hm,” Lambert grumbled, reached for Aiden’s prick, only to have the hand summarily smacked away. His upper lip twitched in a possessive snarl, cat eyes narrowing even as the pupil remained fat and round. “Let me touch you,” he demanded, petulant.

Aiden stayed propped up on his elbow, fingertips brushing through the damp hair on Lambert’s chest. Even the gentlest touch kept him pinned in place, even if his lower lip was thrust out in the most outrageous pout. “Fine,” Aiden murmured, rolling onto his back. He stretched his arms above his head in a feline stretch, before tucking them beneath the pillow and lifting his hips in a little presentation of his assets. Despite flagging a little, he had more than enough to show off. “Go wild.”

With narrowed eyes, Lambert flopped over moodily and spooned up to Aiden’s side. Rather than go straight for the prize, Lambert started at Aiden’s collarbone. It was slightly uneven from a bad break, and Lambert traced it with featherlight caresses, typing into the hollow of his throat and cresting the tight bulge of his shoulder. Aiden’s skin was darker than his, and the crisscrossing white lines of his scars were starker for it. Lambert reached across to a taut bicep and drew his forefinger down one raised ridge. “How’d you get this one?”

Silence followed, and Lambert looked down, worried he’d somehow tripped over into forbidden territory. Instead of anger afire in those wide, feline eyes, he found glistening adoration, with a slight quiver of the lower lip.

“What?”

“No one’s ever asked me how I got my scars before,” Aiden croaked, somewhat emotional.

“Ever? Fuck, it’s the opening line of every whore between Novigrad and Beauclair; if her mouth’s not busy, she picks a random one and asks. Sometimes I just make it up. The monster too. I think it’s their way of managing their fear, to be honest, but… never?”

“Never.” Earnest, self-conscious almost. 

Lambert’s brain was still settling after his high, but it reasoned around pretty quickly. When there was a cat-shaped medallion hanging around your neck, your experience as a witcher worsened tenfold. Even the tiny acts of human decency extended by the other perceived dregs of society were whisked away. Such a small reminder of Aiden’s otherness - his separation even from the ‘normal’ experience of being a witcher - had thrown him. “Well, I better get started then. So, c’mon, this one?”

“Endrega,” Aiden glanced down at his bicep and Lambert felt him vibrate a little. “Dropped down from the ceiling, caught me off guard.”

“This?” Lambert dropped to Aiden’s forearm, but already a better plan was formulating in his mind. Those glorious cock was still mostly attentive, even if it had softened slightly in Aiden’s moment of emotional turmoil and it would be a crying fucking shame for it to go to waste.

“Boring. Necrophage.”

“Mmhm,” Lambert pushed up and straddled Aiden’s thighs in one fluid movement. When he leaned down next, it was to whisper the question against his areole; there was a small crescent-shaped scar around the outside. “This?”

“Ah,” Aiden twitched, arms sliding out from beneath the pillow only for Lambert to press them out of the way again, the heels of his hands pushed against the underside of his biceps. “Bruxa, she… got a bit close.”

Lambert worked his way down Aiden’s body slowly; kissing, licking and sucking gently one every raised ridge and thin line. He savoured the texture of them beneath his lips, some rough, others smooth, barely there at all and hummed his appreciation at every answer. The monsters and their accounts blurred into one, hardly detailed anyway because Aiden was very quickly breathless. But he deserved the worship, his sacrifices acknowledged. Every mark on his body-mapped a life of pain and danger that he endured so that others didn’t have to. 

There was no such thing as gratitude in a witcher’s line of work. There were coin and bread. Simple, but otherwise thankless. The quiet, awed gasp of a working girl as she heard the tale - only partially spruced up - of a manic fiend goring with its horns was as close as a witcher ever got to appreciation.

By the time he reached Aiden’s thighs - relatively unmarked, a wound down here would be quickly fatal - Lambert could feel his own prick, stiff and hot, beneath his hips. He took Aiden into his mouth, cheeks sucked in tight, tongue agile, and made sure Aiden was thoroughly apprised of how grateful Lambert was for his big, strong, brave cat witcher.

* * *

**Day Twenty-Four: Mittens & Day Twenty-Five: Fuck Winter**

_**A/N:** Jaskier convinces Eskel to buy Lambert a gift for solstice. Lambert receives said gift in a typically Lambert fashion. **Warnings:** very light smut at the end._

“Jaskier, he hates winter,” Eskel grumbled as they walked the streets of Ard Carriagh. “And he especially hates the solstice.”

“But why? It’s a time of colour, and food, and dancing, and family,” Jaskier exclaimed, his arms sweeping so wide that he almost knocked a rack of scarves from a nearby stall. “And you’re in the middle of a beautiful mountain, with roaring fires, and,” he leaned in close, dropping his voice, “attractive men.”

It wasn’t a question. Jaskier was almost certain Lambert was attractive. He knew Eskel and Geralt both were, and Vesemir… well, Jaskier could do with a stable, non-judgemental father figure in his life so the old boy had already been typecast. Eskel sighed, waving an apology to the apoplectic stallholder as he adjusted the scarves, and walked by Jaskier’s side.

“One of his catchphrases is ‘fuck winter’,” Eskel sighed. “I don’t think a gift would be a good idea.”

“Ooh, what about this?”

“Too expensive. He’d mock me for wasting money.”

“What about this? Look…”

“He finds reading boring unless it’s particularly scientific.” 

“Hmm, not one for stories, that could be problematic.”

“You could talk to him for three hours about the medicinal uses of a forktail’s liver,” Eskel mumbled, feeling rather defeated by the whole idea. And then he spotted them. A pair of fur-lined mittens sitting on top of a pile of bobbled hats. They were tough on the outside, but when Eskel slipped his hand inside, the plushness of the rabbit pelt made him reconsider his dismissal of the gift idea.

“Those?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“He hates the cold,” Eskel replied, flexing his fingers inside the mitten. “He might need some convincin’ that we’re not going to tease him, but he never looks after himself, or buys good kit unless it’s directly linked to killing monsters.”

“A witcher and a martyr,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Oh, how original. Well, allow me.” He reached for his coin purse and, before Eskel could wrestle out of the mittens and protest, passed the payment over. “Consider it an equal trade. He has his mittens, and I’m allowed to tell stories all winter.” With this, the bard ambled off and Eskel was left to trot along in his wake.

Eskel presented his gift a week after their arrival. Everyone had settled in their routines, and he’d agonised over how best to give Lambert the mittens without making him angry. There was the dismissive way; oh, I saw these and just snagged ‘em, they don’t fit, so here. The secretive; leave them on his bed and hope he notices them. The ceremonious; a grand gift-giving before the fire on solstice morning. None of them was appropriate.

In the end, Eskel settled for placing them in Lambert’s lap while they sat together before the fire one evening. Lambert was whittling - or trying to, his fingers were so cold he kept having to stop and shove his hands beneath his arms - and Eskel reading. The scarred witcher placed his offering carefully on Lambert’s knee. “I bought you something.”

“So you have,” Lambert’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Uh,” Eskel blinked. “Because you get cold, and these are nice.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“I… didn’t get them for anything in return. I thought you’d like them.”

“You don’t want anything in return,” Lambert repeated. “Bullshit. You want head?”

“What?”

“Do you want -,” Lambert placed his knife and slowly emerging figurine aside, and spoke as if addressing a slow child, “- me to give you head? In exchange.”

Eskel scowled. “No, not right now, and not in exchange.”

“If I don’t pay for them, then how do I know they’re mine? They’re really just yours on loan.”

“Look,” Eskel pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t want them, I’ll give ‘em to Jaskier or something.”

“No, they’re mine,” Lambert picked them up and held the soft material to his chest possessively. 

“But you just said -,” Eskel pointed, but gave up. “Fine, you’re welcome.”

“Mmhm.”

He left without waiting for a thank you. That’d be like trying to pry blood from a stone.

Lambert wore them for everything. The only time he took them off was for training; he didn’t want to tear the fur during a bout. Brewing, distilling, chopping, sleeping. The mittens were a hit. Eskel beamed with pride every time Lambert swaggered past, his mittens proudly on display for everyone to see. Occasionally he’d mutter something like ‘toasty fucking hands, oh yeah’ and Eskel had to bite his lower lip to stem the chuckle.

There was one thing he couldn’t do effectively though. Eskel discovered the handicap on solstice morning when Lambert rolled over in bed and glared at him. He looked up slowly from his book and raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

Lambert didn’t say anything, just swept away the furs to present a very impressive case of morning wood, and then raised be-mittened paws before his face as if to emphasise his point. Eskel smirked. “Take ‘em off then.”

“Eskel,” Lambert growled.

“I’m reading…”

“Eskel.” More forceful.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Eskel chucked the book onto the nightstand and flopped onto his side. “C’mere then.”

Lambert rolled towards him until they were spooned close, Eskel’s chest to his back, and then sighed in delight when that large hand finally wrapped around his cock. “Mm, yeah.”

“You’re an asshole,” Eskel breathed, smiling into Lambert’s bed-scruffy brown hair.

“An asshole with warm hands.” Lambert threw his head back, hands resting over the covers, and rocked his hips lazily into Eskel’s palms. Next year he was going to ask for fur-lined boots.


End file.
